


The Skull's the Thing

by shadowed_sunsets



Series: I Knew Them Well [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-22
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-24 20:39:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/267653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowed_sunsets/pseuds/shadowed_sunsets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "The Secret's in the Skull." Magic AU.</p><p>John and Sherlock arrive at the Holmes family home to help plan the defeat of Moriarty. But as secrets come out, and the magical world is thrown into even more chaos, the danger- and the encroaching threat on the continued survival of the magical world, and possibly the normal world- increases.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the (long-awaited) sequel to "The Secret's in the Skull," so you want to read that one first. Go up to the part that says 'Part 2 of the I Knew Them Well' and click the "
> 
> This is my second (posted) story in the Sherlock fandom. It comes from reading too much Dresden Files, Harry Potter, and Chrestomanci novels. So if you happen to recognize anything from those, they belong to their respective authors.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, more author's notes at the end (which you should probably read)! ^^ And yes, that is a "?" you see.

Mycroft waited until just before the car turned into the drive leading to the Holmes family home before calling Sherlock and Doctor Watson again. While this time did give him an opportunity for some long-needed peace from both his brother and work, it also left him time to reflect on what had been done to Sherlock and Doctor Watson; as well as worry about what would happen now. Like Sherlock, his mind never truly stopped- he had just learned to distract it with work. Yet now, with only the situation at hand to consider, he found it difficult to stop.

He had a very strong feeling this confrontation with Moriarty would be one of the most difficult the Holmes family ever faced. Whoever this Moriarty character was, he was not only powerful but also appeared to be very well-connected; especially if he still had yet to be found. Mycroft suspected the encounter at the pool had only been the first stepping-stone in Moriarty and Sherlock’s growing competition. He could only hope that Moriarty would believe Sherlock and Doctor Watson were dead long enough to give all of them time to develop a strategy.

Of course, coming to the family home would be their first line of defense. No matter how much Sherlock complained, and how many wards Mummy had planted at Baker Street over the years, it remained nowhere near as safe as their family home with its years of history. And if everyone was there together then, granted Sherlock and Father didn’t destroy the place, they would be well-protected.

Luckily it hadn’t been as difficult to convince Sherlock into his skull as he’d feared, especially since Doctor Watson had agreed once he understood what was happening- and then managed to eventually persuade Sherlock. The realization that John Watson could be just as stubborn as his brother, even at Sherlock’s worst, had been accompanied with both amusement and gratitude. During their years together Mycroft had often been the only one to come even close to being able to control Sherlock- and most of that had been through persuasion. Yet John Watson seemed to have a natural gift for it.

The driver knocked lightly on the dividing window, and Mycroft leaned over to lower the window in order to hear. “Yes?”

“We’re almost there, sir,” the driver informed him without taking his eyes off of the road.

Mycroft nodded his gratitude and replied mildly, “Excellent. Please give me a few minutes.” Then he raised the window again and maneuvered the handbag next to him.

It took Mycroft a second or so to undo the clasps at the top and open it. He then sat back and called solemnly, “Sherlock Holmes, I summon you. John Watson, I summon you.”

Mycroft could have used his brother’s and Doctor Watson’s full names, since he did know them. But a person’s full name held power, especially if they were a magic-user. If you knew the correct way to pronounce a person’s name it would give you power over them, mostly to do whatever you wanted to them. But right now, Mycroft didn’t want that power over either Doctor Watson or his brother. It wouldn’t be right.  
In front of him, between one blink and the next, the empty seat opposite him became occupied by his brother. Sherlock was still dressed in his usual suit and that favorite coat of his, completed by the typical glare Sherlock was currently leveling at him.

“That was completely unnecessary,” Sherlock accused, sounding incredibly annoyed, and then crossed his legs.

Mycroft just smiled pleasantly at his younger brother.

The two of them then engaged in one of their typical staring contests, waiting for Doctor Watson to appear. But as nearly a minute went by and the car drew closer to the house, Doctor Watson had yet to appear causing Mycroft and Sherlock to become worried.

Sherlock finally broke the silence by addressing the handbag beside Mycroft. “I’d prefer not to introduce you to Mummy as a skull, John. But I will if you give me no other option.”

It was a few seconds later when John finally appeared next to Sherlock, his appearance slightly disheveled. “Sorry,” John apologized, giving them both an embarrassed smile. “Took me a bit to work out how to do that.” He turned to give Sherlock a stern look. “I’d rather not have your Mum’s first impression of me be of my skull, Sherlock,” John told his flat mate in the same tone he used when discussing Sherlock’s experiments. His gaze fell on the handbag. “I’d actually like to meet her, face to face.”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder, burrowing further into his coat. “Mummy wouldn’t mind,” he stated calmly. “And you would still be meeting her, John- even if not by conventional standards.”

“While Mummy may not mind, Sherlock,” Mycroft quickly interrupted, leaning forward to close the handbag yet again. “I’m certain she would appreciate meeting Doctor Watson in this state rather than his actual one.”

John looked uncomfortable with their discussion, his more human set of ethics coming to the surface. But before he could respond to either of them, the car came to a complete stop.

“We’ve arrived,” Mycroft announced unnecessarily. At his announcement Sherlock shifted restlessly on the seat, then moved forward to the very edge.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft warned quietly, watching as his brother warily eyed the door. While Sherlock wasn’t likely to run with Doctor Watson’s presence, he was still very able to make this incredibly unpleasant.

Sherlock met his eyes for a brief moment, and there was a wealth of emotions there. “I’m fine,” he snapped shortly and then quickly turned his head away again.

Mycroft frowned at Sherlock, wondering if his brother honestly thought Mycroft believed him. But then the driver opened the door next to him, revealing a yard or so of the gravel drive.

Mycroft exited first, stepping aside to allow his brother and Doctor Watson to exit as well. The house didn’t appear much different than it had on his last visit; there was no outward sign of the turmoil he knew to be taking place just inside. Of course Father was most likely insisting on keeping up appearances as he always did, even at such a time as this.

Of course the house was as grandiose as always with its three stories with rows of double-paned windows- each with wooden shutters, the old-fashioned shingled roof, and light brick exterior. But the grandest feature of the house was its front doors, two full-sized wooden doors with large stained-glass windows and old-fashioned matte hardware. They seemed to be- and most likely were- centuries old and belonged there more than any other feature. Only guests were allowed through the front doors, and family at certain times. Otherwise family was always required to enter through the smaller doors at the back of the house.

Behind him Sherlock exited the car and came to stand next to him. Mycroft briefly noted that his brother had no shadow, and there had been no sound from his shoes on the gravel. It was slightly unnerving not being able to sense Sherlock’s presence while knowing full well that his brother was standing beside him. Mycroft glanced over at Sherlock, but his brother’s expression was firmly set.

~~~~~  
From between the two brothers, John let out a loud breath. “I knew you two came from money, but this place is ridiculous,” he commented in amazement, eying the house in front of him. It was the picture of an old-fashioned English manor house, and John wouldn’t be surprised to learn it had been in their family for generations.

“Wait until you’ve seen the inside,” Sherlock advised John in a typical scornful tone. Obviously he didn’t approve of the grandiosity he’d grown up in.

Before John was able to ask Sherlock just what he had meant, the front doors nearly slammed open and an elderly woman practically sailed down the stairs.

She seemed to be as light-footed as Sherlock, and it was barely any time before she was standing on the drive with them.

The woman took in all of them with one encompassing look before hurrying forward. She looked completely comfortable in her heels, and her dressing gown- one to rival Sherlock’s best- nearly flowed behind her.

She first went to Sherlock, treating him to a wide, warm smile. “Sherlock, darling,” she greeted, sounding overjoyed to see him. “It’s so wonderful to have you here; it’s been far too long.”

“Hello, Mummy,” Sherlock greeted in return. His voice was as warm as John had ever heard it, and his smile actually honest.

So this was the infamous ‘Mummy.’ After a brief glance she did look like both of her sons, although she seemed to favor Mycroft more. She had Sherlock’s dark color, with chocolate curls that fell to her shoulders and the same messy look that John knew from experience took hours to manage correctly. Yet she had Mycroft’s darker eyes and slightly heavier build, despite being slightly shorter than both of them. She had also aged very well for having two sons of Sherlock and Mycroft’s ages, and for being their mother.

She stopped just in front of Sherlock, well into his personal space. Aha, John thought, that’s where they got it from. “I’m glad you came, darling,” she said softly, and then went to embrace him.

Sherlock didn’t attempt to move out of reach as he usually did at the suggestion of physical contact. But something- guilt?- flickered briefly in his expression as he said quietly, almost in warning, “Mummy…”

She stiffened then stopped at his soft reprimand, and John thought he heard her breathing waver. But she seemed to pull herself together because her smile was mostly sincere as she moved back several steps. “Of course. I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shook his head in reassurance, but still looked slightly uncomfortable.

Mummy moved onto Mycroft next, choosing to shake his hand instead of embracing him like she’d attempted with Sherlock. “I trust there weren’t any problems getting here?” She asked in the same tone Sherlock used when he already aware of the answer. They shook hands twice before releasing them.

“Of course not, Mummy,” Mycroft soothed, matching her tone despite his slight smile. “Everything went exactly as planned.”

Mummy smiled in return. “Wonderful, thank you, Mycroft,” she said pleasantly, reaching up to lightly pat his cheek.

John waited for Mycroft to pull away from her hand, but this seemed to be as common as Mummy embracing Sherlock.

John didn’t have any more time to reflect on this because Mummy Holmes seemed to have noticed him.

Her eyes widened almost comically as they landed on him, and then narrowed again to dance wickedly. “And you must be John then,” she announced excitedly, much more so then John had expected. “I’ve been waiting to meet you for quite some time.”

John smiled warmly at her, feeling a little nervous. He extended his hand. “I’m sorry I’ve made you wait, Mrs. Holmes. But it’s nice to finally meet you.”

‘Mummy’s’ smile warmed even more at his words, but John wondered why her eyes were dancing in a worryingly similar way to Sherlock’s did when he was excited. “Oh you are a charmer, aren’t you?” She nearly cooed, appearing very pleased by this. “I’m sure my son could learn several things from you.”

John coughed loudly, wondering if he was blushing. He had a feeling she meant something very different than learning how to actually get along with people. John also wondered what exactly ‘Mummy’ thought he was teaching Sherlock, or what Mycroft had been telling her about his and Sherlock’s relationship. But it wasn’t that he was charming, he just knew how to be polite- unlike some people.

“Sherlock, sweetheart, don’t scowl like that,” Mummy scolded as she stepped back to look at all of them. “You don’t want your face to be permanently fixed that way, do you?”

John waited for Sherlock to make the inevitable comment that this would be impossible, but instead his scowl faded into a tight smile as he replied, “Of course not, Mummy.”

“Well then,” Mummy said with a pleased sigh, “let’s go inside, shall we?” She then turned and walkd back to the house, just as light-footed as before.

Mycroft glanced curiously at both Sherlock and John before he went after Mummy, walking a little faster than normal in order to catch up to her.

Once Mummy and Mycroft were away on the stairs, Sherlock turned to John with a mildly amused expression. “Congratulations, John. You’re already a favorite of Mummy’s.”

“Well, she seems like a very nice person,” John said honestly, thinking of Mrs. Holmes and how warmly she’d greeted him- even though he was a complete stranger. “Not quite sure how she came to have two sons like you and Mycroft,” he added, aware that Sherlock knew even he could see the similarities between Mummy and her sons. “You two must have been terrors growing up.”

Sherlock had started towards the house while John finished talking, so John had to hurry to keep up with Sherlock’s longer stride. “It was the opposite actually,” Sherlock replied once John was beside him again, his hands hidden in his pockets. “Mummy was very supportive, even with my…” for once Sherlock seemed to be struggling to find the right word, and several seconds went by before he finished with a strange expression, “handicap.”

John blinked, momentarily stumbling on his progress up the stairs. “Handicap? What handicap could you possibly have? Except for your multiple social ones of course,” He asked without really thinking, and then noticed Sherlock’s first amused look and then slightly irritated one. John considered all of Sherlock’s traits and habits- even the ones that annoyed him constantly yet still all made him… Sherlock. But since the rest of the world didn’t see Sherlock the same way, “Wait, do you mean your deductions?”

Sherlock shook his head once, removing a hand from his pocket to guide John in front of him and then in through the doorway. “No, my deductions came later,” he explained in his same vague manner as he stepped in behind John. “This was from earlier.”

“Right, that explains everything,” John answered sarcastically, yet still shook his head in amusement.

It was then he noticed the space around him, and abruptly felt most of his breath rush out.

“God, Sherlock,” John said quietly, his mind still reeling in shock. “And you live in Baker Street?”

Next to him Sherlock appeared completely at ease on the surface, but John had a feeling he was actually quite tense- evident by his suddenly distant expression.

Inside, the Holmes mansion- and it was a mansion, there was no doubt there, or maybe even a palace- was the kind of place that was frequently written up in magazines as the kind of dream home people wished for.

To his right John could see part of a large dining room with a large and long oak table that had chairs around it which almost looked like thrones. The top section of the wall was a dark green moss color while the bottom section was made of dark wood paneling, and there were also two large glass-paned windows John suspected looked out onto the undoubtedly massive back yard.

Looking left, John saw an equally large room nearly the size of their entire Baker Street flat. From what he could see, it appeared to be a sitting room with wooden bookcases inset into one entire wall and filled with books, two leather armchairs and one sofa arranged in the middle of a room, and, in the corner sat a very expensive-looking upright piano.

He was currently standing in a foyer that seemed to continue on forever to the large wooden doorway set into the far wall, a door that undoubtedly led to even more rooms. On the right side of the foyer was a two flight set of stairs that was also made of wood with carpeting running down the middle and a well polished banister. The first flight retreated back to the far wall, and then ran along the wall up to the second level of the house.

But what John found the most outrageous of all was the overly grandiose chandelier hanging above the foyer, all glinting metal and dangling crystals and lights.

It was one of the most ridiculous things he’d ever seen.

“Baker Street is much more preferable to this place,” Sherlock said scathingly, gazing around the foyer with distaste.

John turned his head to look at Sherlock again. “But didn’t you grow up here?” He asked confusedly, trying to imagine a young Sherlock running around this place wreaking havoc.

Sherlock fixed John with one of his long stares, letting a moment go by before saying, “Just because you’ve grown up in a place doesn’t make it home.”

It was one of his usual enigmatic statements that left John attempting to unravel it for hours. But even though he wasn’t exactly certain what Sherlock had meant by it, he still felt warmed by it.

“Sherlock, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft called without really raising his voice from where he and Mummy stood by the staircase. “Please join us, if you would.”

Sherlock seemed to be on the verge of refusing to comply, despite that both he and John knew it hadn’t really been a request. But then he glanced over at Mummy, and started walking across the floor to her (and Mycroft).

Except for just then the sound of a door slamming echoed from somewhere above and near them, causing John to startle slightly at the noise.

“Amelia, what is this nonsense?” A man’s low voice called angrily from the same direction.

Only a few steps ahead of John, Sherlock suddenly stopped as if he had been pulled back by a leash. And when John looked over at Mycroft, the man’s usually impassive expression was very visibly ruffled. Even Mummy looked rather nervous, her gaze shifting back and forth between the top of the stairs and Sherlock and John.

“I was in the middle of a very important conversation, when suddenly this idiotic messenger of yours started pecking at me and refused to stop,” the voice continued ranting from above, its words just as scathing and cold as Sherlock at his worst. Whoever this man was, he clearly could be just as sharp as John had witnessed Sherlock capable of.

The footsteps paused, and the man said from nearly right above their heads, “This had better be important, Amelia.”

John looked up at the top of the stairs and thought distractedly, ‘ah, here’s the rest of the Holmes’ gene.’

The man standing at the edge of the first step with one hand on the banister looked like he was posing for a portrait instead of simply standing. He was also, other than the ginger-brown hair he seemed to share with Mycroft, the picture of what John imagined an older Sherlock would look like. He had the same ridiculous giraffe-like height, and his slender form looked like he had almost been poured into the dark pristine suit he was wearing. From this distance the man looked more like a mannequin, and John wondered if he shared Sherlock’s love for dramatic outerwear.

John suddenly had the very disturbing sensation of being studied, right before something cold started creeping up his spine. He cautiously raised his eyes to meet the man’s gaze, and then nearly froze under the force of those eyes. If he hadn’t been used to staring contests with the Holmes brothers, John was sure he would have folded under that gaze. It was even worse than his first meeting with Mycroft in the abandoned warehouse. The soldier in him wanted to stand at attention and salute in response, but instead once he started to feel a strange pull towards the man, John quickly diverted his gaze. There was something odd about the man that made John actually not want to meet his eyes for very long, the same as with Mycroft but even more so with this man. In the army John had been used to superiors and drill sergeants barking orders, but even that hadn’t helped to ready him for meeting Mr. Holmes.

Sherlock must have noticed something was wrong, because he turned and walked back to grip John’s elbow with a reassuringly strong hand. No words were exchanged between them, but Sherlock firmly pulled John over to stand next to him and then refused to let go. When John looked over at his friend, he was only mildly surprised by the defiant expression. From what Mycroft and Sherlock had said in the basement of Baker Street, it sounded like Sherlock and his father definitely did not get along.

The eldest Holmes stirred from his post at the top of the stairs and began to descend. “Ah, I see you’ve finally arrived,” he observed with a touch of impatience, as if taking so long had been a personal slight. “Incredibly poor timing, but I suppose it’s too late now.”

The man was to the middle landing by now, and he turned to face them before continuing down.

The part of John’s brain not currently racked with nerves was commenting that Sherlock, and maybe Mycroft too, seemed to have gotten their flair of the dramatic from their father.

“Darius, there’s no need to be impolite,” Mummy, or Amelia, John supposed, scolded her husband just as if he were Sherlock or Mycroft. “They aren’t the ones to blame,” she said reprovingly, walking over to the bottom of the stairs.

Well, that explained giving their sons such unique names; especially since if their father was named Darius. Maybe it was a family tradition.

Mr. Holmes stopped two steps above his wife, but he was looking precisely at John and Sherlock instead of Mummy. John didn’t know what the man was looking for, but he was unnerved when Mr. Holmes finally hummed noncommittally with his lips pressed tightly together.

As he stood next to Sherlock waiting for something to happen, John had the increasingly usual feeling that there was something important happening and going directly over his head. But he could still feel the heavy tension suffocating the room, even worse then when the brothers were in close quarters for too long. Just what was it about this family?

Mr. Holmes must have come to a grand decision because he suddenly drew in a sharp breath and his posture relaxed minimally. His carefully controlled expression flickered just briefly as he glanced at the briefcase still hanging from Mycroft’s arm, then returned in Sherlock and John’s direction.

“Sherlock, I need to speak to you,” Mr. Holmes announced in a voice that carried despite its levelness. “Follow me.”

He then abruptly turned and walked back up the stairs without even waiting for Sherlock to respond or follow.

The hand on John’s elbow tightened almost painfully as soon as the man was out of sight, and John turned to protest. But it abruptly died in his throat when he glimpsed the panicked- for Sherlock- look on his flat mate’s face. It wasn’t hard for him to put that together with the almost possessive hold Sherlock had on his arm.

“It’ll be fine, Sherlock,” Mummy said in a mostly successful attempt to reassure her youngest son. “I’ll look after John for you,” she promised with a small smile, eying the way Sherlock was holding him. “He’ll be safe.”

At her promise Sherlock loosened his grip so that only the pads of his fingers were holding on to John’s sleeve. He didn’t completely let go until Mycroft held his gaze and then gave a small nod. It was obviously some practiced sign between them that John couldn’t understand. He wondered how often they had relied on each other this way in the face of their father throughout their childhood. He could almost imagine a young Sherlock bravely entering their father’s office or rooms while Mycroft stood outside protectively, waiting. For some reason he didn’t understand, it seemed Sherlock had the more hostile relationship with their father. Could it possibly be because of the so-claimed ‘handicap’ Sherlock had mentioned before?

Cursing himself for having been distracted from getting Sherlock to actually explain, or trying to get him to explain, John swore that on the next opportunity he would follow through with it. But now Sherlock was walking away from him, and for some odd reason John felt extremely unsettled by letting the other man leave his sight. It was as if, if Sherlock went away up the stairs and to wherever his father had gone, he really would be disappearing and John would wake up with all this as a dream.

“Sherlock,” he managed to force out, silently wincing at how it had sounded needy instead of the warning he had intended it as.

But Sherlock must have heard something in it, because he actually turned around and gave John a small smile.

Except, of course, he continued over to the stairs and then up them, walking as if he were headed to the gallows instead of to his father’s rooms. John would have called him out on being over-dramatic, but the feeling matched the tense silence in the foyer.

As soon as the curly mop of hair disappeared from the top of the stairs, Mycroft turned to look at his mother. “Mummy,” he began cautiously, as close to a plea as John could imagine from him.

She nodded agreeably, an almost pained expression darkening her features. “Yes, I think you should.”

Mycroft glanced briefly over at John before hurrying up the stairs at a fast pace that betrayed his worry.

Before John could ask what they were talking about, Mummy left her place by the bottom of the stairs and walked over to him. She stopped next to John and smiled kindly at him. “Well,” Mummy said as if everything was perfectly fine and her smile wasn’t at least partially forced, “Why don’t I show you around a little?”

John then found himself rushed away on what seemed like a very long and painfully detailed tour of the Holmes mansion, not quite able to distract himself from worrying about Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter than usual in which the three Holmes men face off... you can probably imagine just how not pretty it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is the (long-awaited) sequel to "The Secret's in the Skull," so you want to read that one first. Go up to the part that says 'Part 2 of the I Knew Them Well' and click the ">>"
> 
> This is my second (posted) story in the Sherlock fandom. It comes from reading too much Dresden Files, Harry Potter, and Chrestomanci novels. So if you happen to recognize anything from those, they belong to their respective authors.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, more author's notes at the end (which you should probably read)! ^^ And yes, that is a "?" you see.

Mycroft hurried down the hallway of the second floor of the Holmes manor, moving towards Father’s study. Only several minutes had passed since Sherlock and Father had disappeared up the stairs, but Mycroft knew from experience there was more danger the longer the two were left alone together. Even what had happened to Sherlock was unlikely to restrain Father from harassing him. His brother had always been Father’s favorite target.

The briefcase with Doctor Watson and Sherlock’s skulls bumped lightly against Mycroft’s leg as he moved, reminding him of his task; as well as his failure to protect his younger brother and Doctor Watson.

Moriarty’s name had first come to light long ago on the night of Sherlock and Doctor Watson’s first meeting. But something sinister had started stirring even earlier. The balance between normal London and its magical backbone shadow was slipping, and many who were aware worried it would soon unravel completely. The unrest that had previously only consisted of whispers had also lately gained strength, disturbing the peace their community had enjoyed for centuries. If only those people knew what had had to be done to keep such peace.

Until now, Mycroft and his people hadn’t been certain who was behind this brewing trouble- just that there was someone. But all they had been able to uncover were whispers of a shadow; one with great power, and a promise of revenge on the magical community- revenge that may possibly involve its actual destruction. This was, of course, immensely distressing, so Mycroft had begun working even harder to find the person causing these whispers.

Yet, until that night at the pool, they had had very little success.   
Then Moriarty had surfaced and shown his face, revealing himself, and they had known.

It was Moriarty stirring everything up and plotting; yet, for some reason, he seemed to have wanted to catch Sherlock’s attention first- before putting his plans in motion. The real question was why Moriarty had wanted Sherlock. Oh, there were numerous reasons why but the real question was which reason.

Stopping in front of the door to Father’s study, Mycroft made a mental note to ask Sherlock if Moriarty had said anything to his brother regarding that subject the next time they had a moment alone.

He knocked three times in quick succession and then two slow knocks, a code only immediate family and the house staff knew. Then, just to be sure, Mycroft called through the paneling, “Its Mycroft, Father.”

He waited patiently as he felt the wards on the door test him to verify he wasn’t a threat, and was who he claimed to be. Father was overly suspicious sometimes, especially with his wards; but if someone did manage to sneak into the mansion- unlikely- and find their way to Father’s study, this was an almost guaranteed safeguard.

The wards proved to recognize him since he felt them hum once more before becoming dormant again. Yet he still waited for Father to call “come in” before reaching out and actually opening the door.

Father’s study was the same as it had been throughout his life, although perhaps not as daunting as when he was a child. There were floor to ceiling bookcases lining two of the walls, the curtains drawn over the two large glass-paned windows were made of heavy dark velvet, and behind the large, antique wooden desk Father was sat at was an oil painting (concealing a safe) and then above more shelves. An antique oriental rug lay spread in front of the desk and covered nearly half of the room, the rest of which was covered in dark green carpeting.

Mycroft walked inside, letting the door close behind him. His gaze instantly tracked to Sherlock, who was sitting in one of the chairs in front of Father’s desk, his legs curled to his chest and his chin resting on them. From his current angle Mycroft was unable to see his brother’s expression, but from the obvious hostility in the air Mycroft could easily guess.

“Ah, Mycroft,” Father greeted from his place behind the desk. He lifted his chin from where it had been resting on his hands and turned to fully face Mycroft. “Thank you for joining us.” Father gestured at the other- empty- chair in front of him. “Please, sit down.”

Mycroft walked forward to the indicated chair, thinking annoyed thoughts of how Father was able to turn even this into a political governmental meeting. As he sat down, slowly lowering himself, Mycroft felt Sherlock’s gaze on him. But he didn’t return or indicate he was aware of it; instead he continued to keep his gaze focused intently in front of him.

“Sherlock, stop that and sit upright in your seat like an adult,” Father scolded sharply with a disapproving frown. “It’s not respectful to sit in such an indecorous fashion.” He sat back in his own seat, lacing his fingers together in a way that was reminiscent of Sherlock. “I would have thought you’d at least be able to sit like a reputable person.”

Sherlock made a scoffing noise and raised his head slightly. “In case you haven’t noticed Father, I’m not in fact a person seeing as I am no longer alive.”

The air in the room became sharp with a sudden chill, and Father’s dark eyes blazed in his pale face. Mycroft watched carefully for if any of the electronic devices began to spark.

“I’m fully aware of your… condition, Sherlock,” Father replied stonily. “There is no reason to remind me in such a childish way.” He gaze flickered downwards to the chair again. “And it is still no reason for you to not be able to sit in a chair correctly.” Father’s expression shifted into a frown. “You could at least pretend to be my son.”

In his new position sitting parallel to his brother Mycroft saw the very brief flinch Sherlock made in response before drawing his legs even closer to his chest.

Not even in the same room for ten minutes and Father had already brought up the main root of his and Sherlock’s hostile relationship. A record, of a kind. Two clashing personalities, one who was infinitely stubborn and the other who believed he was always right and spoke his mind. And of course Mummy and Mycroft himself were constantly trapped in-between them. It had been like this ever since Sherlock’s eleventh birthday; when Father’s hopes for his younger son had been destroyed.

“Father, perhaps we should discuss what has happened to Sherlock and Doctor Watson,” Mycroft suggested lightly, trying- even obviously- to change the subject. “Or what we have managed to find on Moriarty.”

Annoyance flickered in Father’s eyes at the suggestion, but he quickly acquiesced. “As of yet we still have very limited information on this Moriarty.” Father looked as if this was a personal failure on his part. “If I didn’t have concrete proof of his existence, I would find myself skeptical. Chrestomanci and his people know nothing of a Jim Moriarty, although there are records of a Moriarty family in Ireland.” He lifted some of the papers in front of him and picked out one full of his neat, precise handwriting. “A Dolores and Alfred Moriarty, a warlock shopkeeper and witch garden designer. Married forty years, no children. And they have caused no trouble at all according to records.”

“You must have made a mistake then,” Sherlock drawled in his usual patronizing tone. But he wasn’t smiling. “Moriarty is very real. He couldn’t have appeared from nothing, he must have family.” His mind visibly whirred for several seconds. “There has to be a record of him somewhere. No one can be that careful,” Sherlock commented, leaning forward slightly.

Father cast Sherlock a sharp look. “You certainly couldn’t.”

Years of trying to escape a world that refused to accept him under any circumstances, only for it to finally play a part in Sherlock’s death. Their kind was supposed to live at least twice the lifespan of a normal human. With the way Sherlock lived that had been highly unlikely; but Mycroft had hoped for several more decades for his brother, especially since Sherlock had only just found happiness with Doctor Watson. Or at least what passed as happiness for Sherlock.

Of course not all of what Sherlock had done in those years was necessarily his own fault, although Father would never understand or agree with that conclusion.

“What about the High Council, then?” Mycroft quickly interjected, falling into the role of mediator as he always did. “Surely Mother has heard something.”

Father glanced over his sheet of notes during a long silence before finally setting it down on the desk. His expression was the same as Sherlock’s when dealing with the dense officers of the Yard. Fortunately one of the benefits of Father’s position was that he was not forced to interact very often with the Council. That was mainly Mummy’s job.

“Your mother had heard nothing from them, as usual. We aren’t entirely certain if they are aware of what has happened, except seeing as it was such a major working they must be aware of it. Yet we have had no word from them at all,” Father informed them, his voice becoming more and more irritated as he continued. The council was one subject on which Father could seethe for hours. “Therefore they must be preoccupied with a matter more important than an attack on our family.” He sniffed delicately. “It seems we will have to solve this matter ourselves.”

Sherlock shifted in his seat, then unfolded his long legs and let them hang over the edge of the chair. “It wasn’t an attack on our family, Father,” he disagreed meaningfully. “It was a personal attack directed only at myself, and I will treat it as such.”

Mycroft stood and faced Sherlock, caught between a desire to lock his little brother in his room and not let him leave; or reminding Sherlock he didn’t have to do everything alone like he always insisted. Moriarty may have directly assaulted Sherlock, and Doctor Watson, but an attack on any member of the Holmes family was still an attack on all of them. Mycroft would stand by and help his brother whether Sherlock, or anyone else, wanted him to or not. It would be for Sherlock more than for vengeance, although he would still find Moriarty wherever the insect was hiding and make him deeply regret what he had done.

“Sherlock, I hope that under no means do you continue to consider such a ridiculous idea,” Mycroft told his brother sternly, using his position of towering over Sherlock to his advantage. “You are part of this family, even if not everyone agrees, and we defend our own. Moriarty is a legitimate threat that needs to be dealt with permanently by all of us together; he is not only your concern, Sherlock.”

Sherlock did not appear to be intimidated by Mycroft at all. Instead he just scoffed and replied acidly, “Ever the politician, Mycroft?” But Mycroft had years of practice reading between the lines.

“Language, Sherlock,” Father scolded yet again, looking through the papers. As usual he was defending Mycroft yet at the same time hadn’t mentioned supporting Sherlock, not entirely surprising. “And sit down, Mycroft. This isn’t the time for grandstanding.”

Mycroft coughed quietly, straightened his jacket, and sat back down. He hadn’t been making a speech, or hadn’t meant to. He’d simply wanted to be sure Sherlock was aware of his support and would protect him. Of course, Sherlock had passed on and was a spirit now, but there were still some kinds of deep magic that could still harm him and Doctor Watson; magic that Mycroft suspected Moriarty was indeed capable of.

Speaking of… “Father, its obvious Moriarty is very powerful. But have you and Mu-mother discussed just how he was able to manage this kind of spell?” Mycroft gestured at Sherlock with his hand, and noticed that Father followed it. Sherlock just lowered his head to glare at the two of them through his curls. “Even a powerful wizard or sorcerer would have difficulty enacting this even once. To do it twice…”

“Is highly improbable, yes,” Father finished, sounding as if he was repeating himself. “I understand that very well, Mycroft. Yet it seems he is indeed capable of it.” He paused, studying Sherlock with his own piercing gaze. “However… before we begin discussing how to respond to and manage this situation, I would first like to confirm just what the situation actually is.” Father then turned to Mycroft, raising a brow, “You did bring the skulls, correct?”

“Yes, Father,” Mycroft replied shortly, turning to where he had left the briefcase beside his chair.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock asked scathingly, looking incredibly irritated. He was speaking more than he usually did in Father’s presence, and challenging him like he hadn’t in years. Mycroft wondered if it was because he no longer had anything to fear from Father, or because Sherlock was truly rattled by what had happened and just putting on a brave face. “Moriarty somehow found a way to tie John and I to this plane after having first killed us in a ridiculously human way. It’s likely he used something to access more power than he normally has; possibly some object or token, but more likely-“

“Yes, thank you, Sherlock,” Father said in a low voice to rival even Sherlock at his iciest. “I’m sure your opinions will be taken into account,” Father said dismissively before turning back to Mycroft, clasping his hands in front of him again. “The skulls, Mycroft.”

It wasn’t even close to a question. Mycroft opened the briefcase now at his feet, but looked over at Sherlock first before deciding which to hand over to Father.

Sherlock had returned to curling up in his chair at Father’s reprimand, his legs folded up in front of him. He was staring defiantly at the carpet, but did meet Mycroft’s eyes for a few brief seconds. Sherlock’s expression had remained almost completely blank, likely from practice being around Father, but his eyes were different. And, written there as plain as day, was ‘not John, please not John.’

When they were young, before Sherlock had become a Disappointment and while Mycroft was still coming into his powers, their parents had forced the two of them to soulgaze. So, at the age of almost thirteen, Mycroft had glimpsed his brother’s soul. It was a large part of why he looked after Sherlock so adamantly, even now.

Of course the two of them had changed over the years, in multiple ways, but Mycroft always recognized his brother.

This time he nodded his understanding with a very small nod, and lifted Sherlock’s skull out instead. Mycroft didn’t think for a second that Father had missed their exchange, but he didn’t make any comment as Mycroft walked to the desk and carefully handed over Sherlock’s skull.

Father took the skull and held it in front of his eyes in his hands. After several seconds he raised his head to look at Sherlock. “You always were a romantic; you must get that from your mother.”

Mycroft tried his very best not to laugh. Sherlock was the least romantic person he knew, perhaps after himself. It was not out of romance that Sherlock had had him give Father his own skull instead, or perhaps not entirely.

Sherlock merely appeared annoyed as usual, yet he didn’t attempt to correct Father. It was probably the kindest insult he had ever received from their father. But it was true Sherlock hadn’t received any romantic notions from Father at all, that was more Mummy’s area.

“Mycroft, come here and stand next to me,” Father ordered, setting Sherlock’s skull down on the desk in front of him.

Mycroft slowly stood up, taking his time. He would obey Father but that didn’t mean he would do so right away.

Sherlock’s gaze bored into Mycroft’s back as he finally stopped beside the desk, but Mycroft didn’t turn to actually look over at his brother; not now when he was this close to Father.

Once Mycroft was settled, Father lifted his hand and placed it lightly on top of Sherlock’s skull.

“I expect you to behave, Sherlock,” Father warned, adding a warning glare. But Sherlock refused to meet his eyes.

When Father lowered his head and closed his eyes, cutting off the strong gaze, Sherlock visibly relaxed. The arms that had been tightly wrapped around his legs relaxed and Sherlock uncurled slightly from his protective ball.

Mycroft tilted his head a little in inquiry; and, even though their rivalry had existed for over two decades now, Sherlock could still read him.

His brother grimaced, eyes flicking away from him; but he did bob his head a little.

Taking that as assurance, Mycroft looked down at the mirror resting under Father’s hand on the desk. Since closing his eyes Father hadn’t moved, but the atmosphere in the room suddenly changed drastically.

The air seemed to grow heavier until Mycroft felt like it was pressing at him from all sides, compressing and trapping him. He was being pushed aside, made inconsequential. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling for him, and one he felt very rarely.

But this was what Father’s power, and will, felt like. Father made it very difficult to forget how powerful and influential he was, which made Mycroft thankful he didn’t often experience the full force of it. And Sherlock, who throughout their childhood had often been the focus of Father’s attention and temper, had had little protection from it. He had tried to defend himself by bearing it and holing himself up in his room afterwards, or, in the later years, trying to respond with sharp remarks. Of course Father had never explicitly taken advantage of Sherlock’s lack of a gift, but they all knew he was highly aware of it.

Mycroft waited for Father’s powers to focus on Sherlock’s skull for the purpose of recalling his brothers buried memories. But it never occurred.  
Time passed and still Father’s magic hadn’t focused; it was still spread out layering the room.

It was possible something was at least slowing down Father, but there were only a few things with enough power to do so. Mycroft only hoped Moriarty wasn’t the reason; the man was enough trouble as was.

Still sitting in the chair, Father opened his eyes looking extremely displeased. “Sherlock,” he barked, “behave.”

Mycroft quickly looked over at Sherlock in time to see his brother wince, and then turn away in annoyance. “Fine,” Sherlock snapped, closing his eyes.

Almost immediately the tension in the air vanished and Father’s power finally focused in on Sherlock’s skull.

Father then began slowly running his finger clockwise around the rim of the mirror. As he did power built around the mirror, and soon the reflection of the ceiling faded to grey clouds.  
Then, in its place beside the mirror the skull began to glow faintly and the mirrors surface cleared, finally revealing an image.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends the second chapter. Sorry it was relatively short, and kind of ended on a cliffhanger-y-ish point. The next chapter will be better, and longer... and more plot-y. Yay plot!
> 
> Thanks to all of you for all the reads and kudos and such... they were very, very appreciated! Please keep them coming! (Because I am in no way at all a kudo/comment whore >>)
> 
> Annnnnyways... I really hope y'all enjoyed the chapter!
> 
> I have two point five more chapters fully written, and another one in the works. So I decided to not let you guys wait any longer ;) I also most of the rest of the plot worked out, thanks to the lovely KT- <33 you girl.
> 
> On a random side note: I just recently watched one of my favorite movies Kate & Leopold, and now have rabid plunnies running around in my head. I also have some actual ideas for it. So I was wondering if anyone would actually be interested if I chose to write it.
> 
> See ya next Friday! Any feedback you want to leave, or anything else, would be absolutely loved <3333
> 
> Thanks again, see you soon~! <3
> 
> (Geez that was a long chapter notes >>)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Moriarty is a evil jerk-face, Sherlock and John get trapped in a river, and Father Holmes dares to insult John with Sherlock in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My darling, darling readers I am *so* sorry it took me so long to post this chapter. I thank you for being so patient, and not sending me any threats about hurrying it up. Instead my wonderful friend KT did it for you, threatening me with a skull instead (she didn't feel like sharing just whose skull it would be).
> 
> I hope this chapter is worth the long wait, and helps to explain more of the plot. I also hope you enjoy. ;)
> 
> Read on, folks!

Jim Moriarty watched silently as one moment he was warning off the one man he suspected may just be competent enough to be his archenemy- and he wasn’t warning him off, not really- then, in the next second the scene in front of him went up in flames, literally.

It had been a threat, yes, but not one he had planned on following through with; at least not for a while. Jim still had many schemes involving games to play with Sherlock Holmes, before they eventually reached their decisive confrontation. The threat was a carefully crafted one; when Jim finally destroyed Sherlock Holmes it could only be with his favorite element. Sherlock Holmes’ death would involve fire; he loved fire. The threat was a carefully crafted one; when Jim finally destroyed Sherlock Holmes it could only be with his favorite element.

Yet that death had supposed to have when he wanted it to, and be because of him. His archenemy was not supposed to currently be burning alive right in front of him; and also not because of an idiotic ghoul with a happy trigger finger.

Exactly before the fire blast from the bomb rigged vest reached him, Jim activated the protection spell he’d woven into the bracelet wrapped around his left wrist. He had poured power into it right before leaving to take John Watson, but hadn’t expected to need it. Even if Sherlock Holmes was his archenemy, Jim was certain he still held the upper hand; he could defeat even Sherlock.

The charm formed an invisible shell surrounding his body, almost molded to his skin, only a second before the wall of fire was about to envelop him. Instead the fire went around him, leaving him completely untouched and affected by its heat.

Seeing as the explosion hadn’t been quite as explosive as it could have been- he had wanted to make a point, and a threat, not actually kill anyone just yet (except maybe John Watson)- the fire lasted little more than two minutes.

Jim lost sight of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in the fire; but even if the good Doctor Watson died, with Sherlock’s intelligence Jim was absolutely certain Sherlock must have some method of magical protection on his- gorgeous- person. Even the most powerful of their kind knew the importance of carrying some way to protect themselves. A magical threat of any kind was still a very real threat, no matter what its source.

When the fire weakened to where it had nearly died out, Jim lowered his shield and let his arm return to his side. While waiting for the fire to clear completely, Jim focused on the emotions he was feeling at that moment- ones that weren’t near to hope at all- and waved his hand slightly in the air.

In response, a faint current of air formed in front of him; it pushed away what was left of the fire so Jim could finally see the effect of his bomb. (He really did prefer fire, the symbolism the element carried of destruction and rebirth in the same breath; but sometimes the lesser element of wind was necessary, and could be nearly as destructive.)

The bomb he had engineered was much more destructive than he’d expected it to be; although magic and explosives were always a very unstable combination.

Many of the stall doors had been ripped off their hinges, leaving gaping, charred holes where they’d once been; tiles from the walk around the pool were torn up and mixed with other debris floating on top of the water and littering what was left of the walk around him.

But what was the most striking was the distinct absence of any other human being in the room with him. There were only the ghouls he’d summoned to act as snipers. (They may require an extra amount of will, but it also meant not having to dip into any of his funds just to pay real men he’d only have to kill later).

Sherlock and his precious pet were gone, likely permanently departed from this world. For a very, very brief moment, Jim believed his nemesis had escaped today- waiting nearby to continue their games another day.

Then he saw what could barely pass for remains there was so little left, and what was left was barely recognizable- lying amongst the debris surrounding of him.

It was almost undeniably obvious now this was everything left of Sherlock and his pet, but Jim was always careful to leave nothing untested. He stretched his senses towards the skulls in front of him and carefully prodded the one closest to him. Sherlock had died quickly enough there hadn’t been enough time for him to release a death curse before his last breath; yet this Holmes was almost his equal, so there was a possibility Sherlock had found another way to attempt to curse him.

But his senses gathered nothing from the skull; curiously not even a trace of the feeling caused whenever two magic users touched skin to skin.  
It seemed there was nothing left of Sherlock Holmes; at least left here in this realm.

Jim felt a moment of regret over all the lost chances, the games that would never be played between him and Sherlock Holmes. All of the effort he had put in, even just for his test of linked puzzles- completely wasted. The entertaining future he’d envisioned for years, full of never-ending games of cat and mouse; of the greatest rivalry that had ever existed. Or, if Sherlock had chosen to join him- as Jim hoped he would- the greatest partnership ever made as they took on the world that had dared to ignore them.

Power gathered around his hand in response to the anger these thoughts were stirring up, and he tightened the hand into a fist, letting his magic feed off the emotions.

Sherlock had chosen his pathetic, human, pet over him; Holmes had thrown away everything- all the greatness- Jim could offer him for a pathetic, normal, pet. In Jim’s mind there was nothing more horrible than an ordinary, powerless human; he felt only pity for them and also despised them for everything they didn’t even realize they were missing.

Yet Sherlock had chosen one of them; and had even given it his heart.

Although, look where it had gotten him: very, truly dead, and completely burnt- just as Jim had promised.

“You idiot!” Jim snarled, enjoying how his voice echoed in the destroyed room. “I gave you very explicit instructions not to pull the trigger until I gave the designated signal- which I very clearly did not!”

He roared the last few words at the shadowed balcony, glaring at the ghoul snipers stationed there.

Jim opened and closed his hand several times, letting the power gather there, using the ring he wore on that hand to focus his magic.

“You. Ruined. Everything!” Jim shouted at the snipers at the top of his voice, then smiled when he felt the spike of their fear echo through the connection he held as their master. He treated them to one of his coldest smiles, basking in their terror and alarm. They were extremely simple creatures, not human yet not fully otherworldly; yet he could still enjoy the energy of what emotions they could feel.

Especially how delightful they were, especially right before he destroyed them.

“So,” Jim said in one of a more ordinary voice, drawing out the word a little. He tilted his head slightly to one side, “I’m afraid this is goodbye.”

Then, with his best genial smile, Jim raised his hand, focused his anger and irritation, as well as what he’d stolen from the ghouls, and shot it across the room and at the balcony.

The ghouls had no time to defend themselves, even if they had been able to. In less than a second they were all destroyed in the fire, before what was left of them disintegrated back into the realm he’d called them from.

It wasn’t as entertaining as burning a person alive, say pet John Watson, alive- but he still enjoyed it nonetheless.

And now that he had destroyed his careless underlings, Jim could turn his attention to much more important matters.

Letting the excess energy he had used to feed the fire drain away, Jim looked down to study what was left of his greatest enemy. He hadn’t really cared about Sherlock’s body- okay, it was gorgeous but Jim treasured the mind more. But that didn’t matter anymore since all that was left of that great mind- likely the only one capable of solving his puzzles- were pieces of ash scattered within a small area on the wreckage of tiles.

As well as a skull, also badly burnt- fire was gorgeous that way- but almost entirely intact.

A beautiful skull.

Maybe he should take it as a trophy; even if he would have preferred the actual, living Sherlock.

Jim glanced distastefully at the other skull sitting very near to Sherlock’s, this one almost entirely blackened; he could likely dispose of this skull simply by crushing it with his foot. Jim didn’t want to keep a reminder of Sherlock’s betrayal; but keeping Sherlock’s skull would be a reminder of what could have been.

His would be a long, dull lifetime without Sherlock Holmes to play with. Jim doubted another genius of his and Sherlock’s level would appear in that time; a playmate for him.

If only… The two of them together could have easily destroyed the two corrupt worlds and disposed of anyone who dared taunt them. It would have gone unforgotten for centuries to come.

In the midst of his reminiscing about his imaginings for the future, a long forgotten memory wandered across them.

Sitting at his grandfather’s feet- never on his knee, that wouldn’t be proper- being told some of the darker, never dared proven, tales about the more shadowy side of their world and its inhabitants.

He had learned so much from his grandfather, information he likely wouldn’t have ever been told by his uneducated, plain mother or father. Everything he knew of magic, he had first learned from his grandfather; and then later on his own after he’d been cast out.

And there was one story he had forgotten until now; a tale so incredulous his grandfather had explicitly warned him it could never be done, and he should never even attempt it.

Well, there were exceptions to every rule; and the Council’s law of not harming another human being was absurd. Why did he possess such powers if not to use them as he wished?

So why shouldn’t he try? He needed someone to test himself against, and it was absolutely certain that Sherlock Holmes was the only one who could ever fulfill that role. He was doing this miserable world a favor, really.

Jim walked over to the skull resting on its own small pile of remains, as bits of debris and possibly bones crushed under his foot with each step. It was a wonderful noise, and only drove him on.

He drew a circle around him and the skull with the chalk in his pocket just to ensure he wouldn’t be distracted. Then he knelt down in front of the skull, and then shifted so he was more comfortable- this enchantment would likely take a while to complete; especially since it was the most complicated one he had ever performed.

But he would make this work; there was no question of that. All he needed was concentration and will.

Jim reached out his hand out and placed it on top of the burned skull, molding his palm and fingers to its slightly disfigured form. He was sure to keep his bare skin in as much contact with the skull as possible.

Then Jim closed his eyes, and ignored the world around him so he was only focused on the skull. When he was aware of nothing but the magic in his body and the skull, Jim gathered his will into his hand and let it form there. Then he poured it into the skull beneath his hand and used his magic to search for the tie to the Otherworld he hoped was still present.

When a person died, especially a magic user who had their own tie to the spiritual world, for a few minutes afterward a connection existed between the Otherworld and the person’s body; a path for the spirit to travel and find rest.

In theory, the connection for Sherlock should still exist within the next few minutes; and using it, he should be able to follow Sherlock’s spirit into the Otherworld and find it there. The only question was if the spirit was still close to the gates, or had begun its journey up the stream.

After a longer time than it he had expected, he was a prodigy after all, Jim finally discovered the connection. It was weaker than it should have been, so he quickly took a hold of it.

And once he had a firm grasp on the connection, it was relatively simple for him to focus and allow himself to slip into the Otherworld; with barely any effort at all.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

It was cold, strangely so; even colder than those miserable London winters.

He tried to force his mind to focus on something else, anything but the cold, but it refused. His brain just wouldn’t move on.

It was almost as if he was stuck in place, trapped and unable to move. A prisoner; the thing he hated the most.

Cold, so cold; with something tugging at his legs, trying to force him to go somewhere he didn’t feel at all inclined to go.

Why? Why should he go anywhere? He needed to stay here, because he wasn’t supposed to be here; or there was supposed to be someone with him. Someone very important.

A strong wind rose out of nowhere, blowing around and through him enough to make him even colder. He wrapped his coat- why was he still wearing his coat?- around his body, a futile shield from the biting cold.

His mind had started to wander again- why couldn’t he focus?- when there was a light pressure on his arm.

He didn’t startle like he should, even as little he liked to be touched. Somehow he knew this was a welcome touch, and an expected one for some reason.

He turned slowly, the consistent force on his legs and uneven ground under his feet making it difficult to move at all.

When he found himself finally facing the welcome presence, everything came rushing back at once. He remembered-

“John,” he tried to say, but even though his lips moved no sound would pass them.

Beside him John smiled one of his small, warm smiles and gently squeezed his arm. John didn’t try to speak- smart since there didn’t seem to be any sound in this place- but he did appreciate John’s attempt to comfort him.

He nodded once and then tried to reassure John with his own smile; but it didn’t seem to have worked if John’s expression was any tell. So instead he raised his hand and nervously held it out, palm up, to John.

To his relief John took it, and let their fingers entwine together. He felt warmer, and safer, with John’s hand in his, even if it was just an illusion.

While continuing to look at him John took a step forward, up the river; that was right, it was a river they were standing in. Their linked hands were pulled taut in the space now between them, so he quickly took a step forward to stand next to John again.

John’s smile widened slightly and then he took another step forward, pulling them along together.

They had made a slight progress up the river when suddenly he felt a strong tugging feeling- even stronger than the river current- pulling him back the way they had come.

He stumbled a little in the current, and then was forced to actually fight against the pull so he could continue moving forward.

Now a few steps in front of him, John stopped and turned back, his face full of worry.

He shook his head a few times, using what little strength he had to focus on fighting the pull. The fact that it felt like not only a physical pull, but also one coming from deep within his body, made it even more difficult to fight.

John didn’t seem to be having any such trouble; with ease he walked back to him, now looking extremely confused.

He tried to open his mouth to reassure John- even if it hadn’t worked before; but his entire body felt frozen, almost as if the river itself had seeped into his bones. And if it hadn’t, it still felt like heavy chains around his ankles.

Then another sharp pull came from somewhere within his chest, so strong he was nearly swept off his feet; instead he bent as far backwards as he could, his body trying to follow the pull. It was actually painful now, but his pained gasp was swallowed by the air.

He remained in that position for what felt like a very long time, even if there was no sense of time in this place. Then he felt another even stronger tug, as if someone had a hold of his arms and was actually physically pulling him in that direction. The force of this one broke the rivers grasp on his feet, and suddenly he was falling backwards in freefall.

It was unlikely he would land on anything- things were rarely what they seemed here. Yet, without a sound and the feeling of sinking into something cold and very wet, he landed in the same river he had just been standing in.

He felt the strange sensation of sinking further and further, as if the bottom of the river had disappeared; he just continued to fall without anything to catch him.

The last sight he saw as he felt himself fading away was John slipping into the water after them, their hands still linked.

Then there was just water, darkness, and the freezing cold; then finally, emptiness.

There was nothing, absolutely nothing.

“Sherlock!”

That was him, wasn’t it? But who… Could it be John? ‘John?’

Still no sound. Useless.

“Sherlock! You need to focus, Sherlock.”

No, that was definitely not John. But he did recognize the voice all too well.

He tried to open his eyes, but his body wouldn’t respond to his commands. So he was forced to listen to his ever-prideful brother scold him for something he was trying to do.

And then, just when he was sure he had almost succeeded-

“Honestly, Sherlock,” a low, irritable voice barked at him, “Behave.”

\- his concentration shattered completely.

That seemed to be the key to finally free him from his frozen state. He was finally able to take a deep breath, as if he really had just been underwater and starved for air.

He was able to easily open his eyes now, and relaxed slightly a moment later when he found himself in the familiar surroundings of Father’s office instead of that horrid Otherworldly river.

But his relief was short-lived when he turned his gaze from his brother’s slightly worried expression to Father’s thunderous one.

Of course; even though he had agreed to submit to this ridiculous yet likely somewhat helpful spell, his father was still annoyed with him.

He tried not to flinch when Father snapped tiredly, “Really, Sherlock. Why must you always interfere with things? Especially a process you well know may lead to the enchanter who somehow managed to kill you. I would have expected you to know how to behave yourself during an important spell such as this; even with as little as you know about them.” A smug smile and a raised brow made an appearance. “I thought you cared about your pet mortal doctor more.”

He had never really had much control over his temper, not as much as Mycroft who had somehow gained the ability to keep a mild expression while being ranted at. But ever since he and John had been permanently executed by Moriarty, he didn’t see any reason to rein in his temper at all.

It had been a quite sudden realization that he and John hadn’t survived the pool incident after all, and were also determinedly being kept unaware of his family’s (and the Yard for what they were worth) investigations into Moriarty; and in addition to those, it now seemed Moriarty himself had been the one to trap he and John in this state, making him an even higher threat than they’d previously believed.

John, who must be to some point disoriented by the bizarre world he’d been thrown into- and he probably should have realized that earlier than just now- and did not deserve this half-existence at all.

John should have lived.

He didn’t care about what happened to himself really one way or another- even if he did hate being trapped in-between like this. But it was John who had had such a bright future.

He willingly took the blame on himself for letting Moriarty do this to them, and for his decision to keep John firmly in the dark until now. They were both decisions he’d likely regret for years to come.

However, by no means did that give Father any right at all to insult John. Over the years he had grown accustomed to his Father’s sharp barbs, and barely noticed them at all anymore. But he refused to let Father insult John while he was in the same room and without John present.

“I won’t listen to this,” he announced sharply, rising to his feet. “You can insult me all you wish, Father,” he continued, keeping his words clipped as his voice rose into a controlled shout. “But I refuse to listen to you insult John. He is completely innocent in all of this, and a much better man than someone like you could ever be. He doesn’t need magic or wealth or power because he doesn’t care about such trivial things.”

After snapping the last word he turned around, letting his coat swish dramatically behind him. It was an unspoken rule not to turn your back on another member of your family, especially in a time of danger; but he embraced the insult.

“So watch what you say, Father,” he added over his shoulder, not bothering to turn his head, “Especially where I can hear you. Or I will make you regret it.” Then he strode over to the door and went through it- wishing he could properly slam in behind him.

So instead he chose to yell back into the room, not caring who heard, “Just so you know, John is extraordinary, for a human, and if you weren’t so blind you could see just how much potential even ordinary humans have!”

Then he finally spun on his heel and marched down the hallway towards his childhood room. He hadn’t been in there for years, but he suspected it was the only place he would be left alone.

And, if Mummy sent John after him- as he assumed she would- it would be easier for John to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for now folks. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter.
> 
> Especially for this chapter I would love any feedback or comments. This chapter was absolute hell to write, especially Moriarty's part. It is ridiculously difficult to get into that guys head- which, now that I think of it is probably a very good thing. Also just anything you noticed or want to comment on would be loved.
> 
> I have the next two chapters and part of the third written, so hopefully it shouldn't take me so long this time. I promise to do my best. The plot is almost all worked out too, so that might help... might.
> 
> On a random side note: I just recently watched one of my favorite movies Kate & Leopold, and now have rabid plunnies running around in my head. I also have some actual ideas for it. So I was wondering if anyone would actually be interested if I chose to write it.
> 
> See ya next Friday! Any feedback you want to leave, or anything else, would be absolutely loved <3333
> 
> Thanks again, see you soon~! <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is not very much plot, a lot of explanations, and a little back story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, so, so sorry it took me this long to post this. I have excuses, but you don't want to hear them.
> 
> So I hope you enjoy! Read on!

Down near the bottom of the grand staircase in the entryway, John came to a stop next to Amelia Holmes as they finished his tour of the Holmes mansion.

During the tour of what felt like never-ending rooms, photographs, and carpeting, John had noticed a few things of his own about the mansion.

The main one was that he could not imagine growing up in this place; as posh as it was, it didn’t seem to carry much love or warmth within its walls. From what he could tell, Mummy Holmes seemed to have tried her best to make up for that gap in her sons’ life; but John could see how Sherlock especially would not have been happy here. It was very different from London.

Another thing he had noticed was just how much history was in this building. There hadn’t been as many portraits lining the walls as he’d expected in a place like this, but Mummy Holmes had made sure to point out the ones she thought he’d be interested in; including a portrait of a much younger- and happier looking- Mycroft and Sherlock, as well as a family portrait from what looked like several years later where they didn’t look as happy anymore.

Mostly the Holmes mansion appeared to be a stereotypical old English family home, but it almost felt to John like it was trying too hard to be one. He didn’t say anything to Mummy Holmes of course, unlike Sherlock he knew when not to be rude, but he had noticed several things they’d passed looked newer than the others.

Mummy Holmes did seem comfortable here, as had Mycroft, and it did appear well-lived in. Maybe he was just seeing things.

Breaking the silence the two of them had fallen into, Mummy Holmes turned to face him with a warm smile. “I know I may have said this earlier, Doctor Watson,” she said warmly, “but I am very grateful for your relationship with Sherlock. He seems to have benefited significantly from your company.” Her smile faded as Mummy finished with an odd note in her voice, “It’s just very unfortunate this is how it had to end. I’m sorry, Doctor Watson.”

John attempted a smile, but he couldn’t quite manage it. “John, please, Mrs. Holmes. And there’s no need to apologize; this wasn’t your fault,” he quickly reassured her.

To his surprise Mummy Holmes smiled again, but this time her smile looked sad. “I wish you luck convincing anyone in this family of that, John.” Mummy Holmes’ lips quirked upward, “Especially Sherlock.”

Unfortunately before he could ask just what she meant, shouting erupted from near the top of the stairs above them.

“Sherlock!”

John’s head snapped up at the sound; while he had heard Sherlock raise his voice several times, especially when infuriated, John had never heard Mycroft do so.

Next to him Mummy Holmes sighed softly. “It seems it hasn’t gone as well as I’d-“

“Come back, Sherlock!” Father Holmes’ voice thundered down the hall, interrupting his wife’s comment. “We have not finished this discussion!”

John flinched at the command in that yell; he was all too aware of how well Sherlock reacted to a raised voice or command directed at him. This was likely the reason why.

Then John heard something he had never expected to hear from Sherlock. But with how loudly Sherlock said it, there was no way for John to pretend he hadn’t heard.

“John is extraordinary, for a human,” Sherlock practically announced to the world, his voice echoing from where he was standing in the hallway. “And if you weren’t so blind, you could see just how much potential even ordinary humans can have!”

John knew he didn’t have Sherlock’s deductive skills, but if he had to guess he would say that had been directed at Sherlock’s rather closed-minded Father. It could have been at Mycroft, but didn’t have the same feel as the brothers’ customary bickering. This was nearly the most infuriated he had ever heard Sherlock.

Part of him was touched by Sherlock’s comment, especially since he hadn’t expected it. But he was glad to hear Sherlock seemed to have developed at least some respect for his fellow human beings.

Mummy laughed quietly, sounding amused to John’s surprise. “He can be sweet sometimes, in his own… indirect way.”

John nodded in response, but his eyes were fixed on the top of the stairs.

There wasn’t any more noise from above them in the next minute or so, and Sherlock didn’t appear. John found himself waiting, as usual.

After more minutes had passed, Mummy Holmes finally looked at him again, her expression pleasant. “Go after him, Doctor Watson,” she insisted gently. “You are likely the only person he will see.”

John stared at her, not understanding. “Sorry… what? What do you mean?”

She just treated him to a version of the enigmatic smile he was all too used to. “Go to him, Doctor Watson. Please.”

Oddly not wanting to disappoint her, and also eager himself to see how Sherlock was, John walked forward and started climbing the stairs.

Then, when he was on the middle landing, John realized he was missing an important detail.

He turned back around and looked down at Mummy Holmes again. “Er, where… would he be exactly?”

Mummy looked greatly amused. “He’ll be in his room, John. Go directly down the hall, do not turn; His is the last on the right. But be sure to knock first,” the look in her eyes flickered. “Or at least warn him.”

Now on a mission, John gave her a grateful smile then hurried up the rest of the stairs. Mummy Holmes’ tour hadn’t included a detailed walk-through of the second floor, but her instructions were specific enough he was sure he could find his way.

At the top he stopped, looking in turn at the hallway leading out in front of him, and the one that led off to his right. He wasn’t sure where either of them led, both had many wooden doors on each side, but Mummy Holmes had told him to keep going straight.

So John went on down the hallway, trying to walk without staring past the wooden doors or various decorations on the walls- some of which were slightly outdated as well as eccentric. Yet other than the decorations, the hallway looked nearly the same as all the others.

It was also disturbingly quiet, which only set him even more on edge. A home shouldn’t be this silent; there should have been far more noise or people than he’d seen so far, for a start. Especially if they were in the midst of a crisis as all the Holmes claimed.

So here he was, wandering the near-silent halls of the Holmes mansion in search of his eccentric flat mate.

John wasn’t exactly sure what he was going to do once he found Sherlock, he hadn’t thought that far ahead; but Mummy Holmes had ‘suggested’ he go look for Sherlock, and John was wary of exactly how Sherlock reacted to such an argument with his father. John knew from experience that Sherlock almost always dissolved into a drawn-out, overly dramatic mope after Mycroft’s visits. But what about when it was his father instead?

With that slightly unsettling thought, John found himself face to face with the wood of the last door on the right side of the hallway; Supposedly Sherlock’s room.

It looked like an ordinary door, but when Sherlock was involved John knew better than to take things as they seemed. And now that he had been thrown head-first into this world he knew nothing about but had apparently been there his entire life, it felt even more important to second-guess everything.

John raised his hand to knock on the door; but just as his knuckles would have brushed the wooden surface, he realized it wouldn’t do any good. Yet Mummy Holmes had advised him to knock or at least warn Sherlock before making an entrance; and John also knew from personal experience that it was better to alert Sherlock than to enter unannounced and see something he would rather have not seen and did not want to ask about.

So he settled for shouting through the closed door, hoping his voice would carry to wherever Sherlock had holed himself up in. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s response came barely a minute later, and John had to bite his lip to stop himself from laughing. He was usually annoyed by the extreme sibling rivalry between Mycroft and Sherlock, but this was just a classic Sherlockian insult.

When he managed to control himself again, John shouted back, “It’s John, Sherlock!”

He then stood there, waiting for some response from Sherlock- even if it was just to invite him inside. But seconds passed by and then minutes, and John wasn’t sure if the silence meant he was free to go in or if it meant he should wait.

With Sherlock it was better to be safe than sorry, so John decided to wait for at least another minute or so.

A few seconds later nothing visibly happened in front of him, but all of a sudden the hairs on his neck stood up and there was a hum of energy or something just barely audible to his ears.

It was unnerving to say the least, but John stood his ground and hoped he was as safe here in the Holmes manor as he’d been told he was.

This lasted for what felt like a long time, but was likely only a minute or so, before it disappeared just as suddenly as it had appeared.

John carefully leaned forward to inspect the doorway and the door; for an instant he had the feeling of actually being stared back at, but then it was gone and it all looked completely ordinary.

Of course, that probably meant nothing at all.

He took a deep breath and then slowly let it go. Only then did he step through the doorway, half holding his breath just waiting for something to happen as he did.

Nothing did happen, to his relief; and once his eyes grew accustomed to the dimly lit place he was in now, John realized he wasn’t in Sherlock’s room as he had expected. Instead, he found himself standing at the bottom of a staircase that seemed actually built into the wall of the house.

It should have surprised him more that Sherlock’s room wasn’t directly behind a door and you seemed to actually have to climb a winding staircase only found in old towers to get to it; but it really didn’t.

John took a step forward, lifting his foot onto the first short stair. It held under his weight so John tried the next. When that also remained steady John carefully continued up the staircase as it wound around the wall.

The staircase wasn’t as long as he had expected it to be; he had gone up less than a dozen stairs when a beam of pale light appeared around the corner, and a few steps later he found himself standing in an open doorway- this time leading directly into Sherlock’s room.

Most of the light seemed to be coming from the large window set into the wall directly opposite him, instead of artificial lights from the wall lamps around the room.

The room Sherlock called his own looked to be about the same size as the combined space of the living room and kitchen at Baker Street. There were bookshelves overflowing with books of varying sizes built into the walls to John’s right and the wall with the doorway he was currently standing in. The wall to his left seemed to an odd combination of clutter surrounding an ancient wooden armoire in the middle.

A bed complete with dark purple covers that John suspects are made of very high quality fabric, wooden posts and a headboard and footboard, protrudes into the middle of the room from the same wall as the window.

It’s not a relatively fancy bedroom, not like what he expected to see, but it’s also somehow not Sherlock either.

A brief act of movement caught John’s eye and drew it back towards the large class window. The curtains around the window had been pulled open, and the light coming in framed a familiar figure pressed against the corner of the window seat, face turned away from John.

Sherlock.

John stepped forward, and then yelped when he felt the equivalent of a small electric shock as he walked through the doorway. But when he looked back, nothing seemed unusual. It was just a doorway.

He quickly shook it off, contributing it to the strangeness of the Holmes manor, and continued into the room and towards his brooding flat mate.

~~~ * ~~~ * ~~~

Sherlock drew his legs closer to his chest, burrowing further into his coat. The window was closed, even if the curtains weren’t drawn, but he still felt an annoyingly persistent chill.

It was probably this house. After… the incident, he had no longer felt welcome in this place; that was a large part of why he had run off to London as soon as he could. All the warmth and love he’d once felt in the house had been gone; even if Mummy, and Mycroft for his part, had tried their best.

Sherlock hadn’t wanted to come back here, not when everything important was still in London. But- as hard as it was to admit- Mycroft was right when he said their family home was the safest refuge for both he and John at the moment.

He no longer belonged here, not even now, but it was safe.

Even if he was forced to suffer the presence of not only his prying and insufferable older brother, but also the man who called himself his father; or who society named as, actually.

That arrogant, stubborn, absolute ignorant patriarch, who-

“Sherlock?”

Without lifting his head first Sherlock shouted in the general direction of the door, “Piss off, Mycroft! Go back to that fool with your tail between your legs like you always do!”

There was a long pause following his insult, and Sherlock thought his brother might actually have gone away.

But then the voice spoke again, sounding like it was fighting back laughter. “It’s John, Sherlock.”

Feeling a very brief flicker of guilt for yelling at John, Sherlock lifted his hand and placed his left palm against the warm wood of the wall next to him.

He might not be able to perform any magic, but he still had the connection to the earth every magic user- no matter how large or small their talent- had; and through that connection also came an extra awareness of his surroundings.

So Sherlock reached out through the walls, closing his eyes and let his head fall forward onto his chest.

The wards surrounding his room, more intricate than those in most of the house, chimed at him as his senses stretched, clamoring about the stranger outside the door. To his relief, there was nothing about danger or anything meant as a warning.

But he still continued to stretch himself, down the short stairway to prod lightly at the wards on the door. It was only to be absolutely certain, but he did feel relief when he sensed John’s familiar presence on the other side.

If it had been anyone else- except for perhaps Mummy, he had years of experience in using the wards surrounding his room to help hide when he didn’t want to be found. But this was John, the one person he didn’t always have to hide from.

So Sherlock pulled his senses back in, while telling the wards, ‘safe, friend, let him pass.’

Of course, anyone who had safely passed through the powerful wards and spells on the front door of the mansion was unlikely to be a threat. And anyone who somehow managed to get through all of those wards and spells would still find their power greatly diminished, down to almost nothing.  
It was the one absolute way to make sure no one could enter the mansion without permission, and if they did then they would be easily taken care of.

That wasn’t what he was worried about right now. They were safe enough- for the moment.

As down the short flight of stairs John stepped through the door, the wards sent up another protest.

Sherlock silenced them with a silent, irritated command; then he waited for John to make his way up the stairs and into the room.

Even though John’s footsteps made no sound, Sherlock was still aware of when John stepped through the archway and into his room proper.

Or, he may have known because as John walked over the threshold to his room, the wards protecting it treated John to a light shock- causing John to give an odd yelp.

Sherlock found this amusing, although he did tell the wards off yet another time. He had forgotten the strength of the threshold on his room; a threshold formed over the many years he had lived in this room. It was a weaker version than that on the front door, but still powerful enough to keep out the unwanted.  
And also had a life of its own to the point where it also enjoying playing pranks on people.

“Come in, John,” Sherlock told John as he uncurled and stretched his legs out across the window seat. “Ignore the wards; they have no reason to hurt you.”

Already several steps into the room, John halted and fixed Sherlock with a look twisted with confusion. “Wards?” He echoed blankly, in the voice he used when Sherlock was being especially tight-lipped.

“Yes, wards,” Sherlock agreed in a bored drawl. “They’re not as strong as they should be, yet-“ In the midst of swinging his legs over the side of the window seat, Sherlock finally noticed the look John was giving him.

“Ah, yes,” he said, disregarding his attempt to stand and relaxed back onto the seat instead. “You don’t understand what they are.”

John gave one of his sighs of frustration and then ran his hand over his face in the way he only did when exhausted. “I feel like I don’t understand anything anymore, Sherlock,” John replied in a voice that was far too quiet for Sherlock’s liking.

“Until your get-together with Moriarty I thought I understood at least enough of this life to get by.” John raised his head, and it was never good when John looked at him in that way. “But then, I find myself kidnapped by a madman, and soon after killed by a bomb strapped onto me by that madman; and then, after all that, find myself not wherever I should be after I die, but back in Baker Street in the middle of yet another war- but this time with tactics, arms, and a purpose I don’t understand.”

From experience Sherlock was aware John was very close to shouting, his usually not-short temper already frayed. “You always seem to know everything, but I don’t. Do you think you can imagine how I feel right now? All of you seem to know exactly what you’re doing, but I’m just left floundering.”

As he listened to John’s protests, Sherlock’s gaze was drawn to how John’s hand had begun twitching at his side and the way John unconsciously shifted his weight off the leg with the psychosomatic limp.  
Neither were good signs of John’s current mental state.

“It’s not good, Sherlock!” John exclaimed, continuing his tirade. “So I’d appreciate it if at least you would take some of your precious time to explain at least something to me; because I don’t know how I can help at all if I don’t understand.”

Once John finally eventually it was to stand very still and stiffly, pretending to catch his breath while carefully not looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled a little, carefully watching John. “Feel better?” He asked in curiosity, letting a touch of humor leak into his voice.

After several seconds of no reaction John finally laughed as his posture relaxed. “Yeah, thanks,” he replied in his normal voice.

“It isn’t your fault,” Sherlock started to comment, choosing to explain rather than admit he did understand how John felt at the moment. “There have been measures in place for centuries now to prevent normal humans from finding out about the other world.” He frowned thoughtfully; “As if most aren’t idiotic enough that they would even be able to realize anything else existed outside of their tiny, self-absorbed world.”

“Wait, Sherlock-“ John begun to say, interrupting him and obviously on his way to scolding him for something.

“I obviously don’t mean you,” Sherlock cut John off in a tone that might have been harsher than was necessary. “I said ‘most,’ don’t be thick.” He then sat up once more, clasping his hands in his lap. “The measures are meant to distract the attention of anyone who ventures too close or notice anything they may think unnatural. The world is meant to stay a secret and also safe; and there are many in it who believe that the measures will keep it that way.”

John, unnaturally, seemed to be having difficulty digesting all this information. But to John’s credit he did understand enough to comment, “But you don’t.”

Sherlock barked a sarcastic laugh. “No. They are idiotic, short-lived measures put in place by fools who only care about keeping the world exactly the way they want it. The Elders haven’t set foot in the real London, your London,” he quickly corrected himself, not having meant to give away his preference for the version of London he’d been living in for years, “for a very long time. No matter how hard they try, it’s inevitable the two worlds will eventually meld into one.”

Sherlock sighed heavily, “As it has already been doing for decades now; our world is already seeping into the other.” He waved his hand in the air next to him, “hence the increase in crime over the last several decades, and also how so many of your families are now raising children who develop supernatural abilities. It’s already happening.”

John stared at him with wide, startled eyes for another few long minutes until he finally stirred and began walking forward again. “Is that true?” John asked as he came to a halt next to Sherlock. “There are actually two worlds, which somehow no one has noticed, that are combining together? And that’s why there’s been so much crime?” He shook his head; “I don’t know, Sherlock; that seems-“

“Really, John,” Sherlock snapped irritably, efficiently stopping John from finishing. “After everything that has happened, to you, in the last past days you are still in denial?” He scowled in frustration, and also perhaps a little wounded. “How… human.”

“Human,” John repeated in the way he did when Sherlock said something he found shocking. “It’s not human, Sherlock; It’s sane! You’re telling me the world I’ve been a part of my entire life isn’t at all what I believed.” John was beginning to look agitated now. “And worst of all, you knew! You knew, but didn’t think to tell me. You gave me no sign at all!”

Sherlock gave a long, exasperated sigh to show just how he felt about that. “You must remember to listen, John. I just said that in a boring, ideal world, you- and people like you- aren’t supposed to notice anything unnatural.”

John sat heavily down on the window seat, not that there was any impact on the seat. “You’re saying that, supposedly, no matter how long we lived together,” he said, voice weighted with sarcasm, “I would never have noticed you were a… what, a wizard?”

Sherlock made a very rude, skeptical noise with his mouth still closed. Those who did choose to reveal their world to the ordinary population, and took the chance in doing so, always did so by such fantastical methods that it often resulted in protecting their world instead, and also gave that hopeless population such ridiculous ideas.

“I suppose you could use that word, yes,” Sherlock agreed with a little reluctance. “And you said it yourself, John: you hadn’t noticed anything prior to the pool. If the events there had not happened, we wouldn’t be having this conversation and you wouldn’t be here.”

John actually laughed; “You’re a bit odder than anyone else, Sherlock. It’d be a bit much to notice on top of everything else.” One side of his mouth twitched upward, holding a mocking note for himself, “Even I’m not all that observant.”

“Not normally, no,” Sherlock agreed, though not with his usual irritation for that fact. “However, unless Mycroft decided to increase his nosy visits, you would have continued in ignorance.” He carefully did not look John in the eyes; “Perhaps that would have been better.”

John made a noise that sounded somewhere between a laugh and as if he was choking. Then he moved closer to him. “Sherlock,” John said in his patient ‘you’re being an idiot, but I’ll explain anyway’ tone. “Despite the saying, ignorance is not always bliss.” He tilted his head slightly to one side and treated Sherlock to a searching look. “You would know that, I’d think.”

Sherlock gave a carefully uncommitted noise, lifting one shoulder minimally. He did understand what John meant, although likely not for the reason John believed. His time saving the Yard had taught him the significance many people held ignorance in, but he also personally knew how important it could be- and the painful consequences when it was taken away. There was a reason why people would quite literally do anything to keep it.

John seemed to have somehow read something in his silence; He leaned forward and said honestly, voice low, “I don’t regret it, Sherlock; any of it. The late take away dinners, the wild chases around London, the insane cases.” John chuckled tiredly, “the violin at three in the morning, the experiments all over- even in the kitchen.”

He remained silent for what felt like a long time, obviously thinking something over. Then John finally concluded, “I didn’t mind, Sherlock; And I honestly don’t regret it.”

Sherlock found that extremely difficult to believe. He had meant what he’d asked Mike- who would want him as a flat mate? He was not close at all to anyone’s perfect idea of a flat mate, he was all too aware of that. Yet somehow, John had stayed; even if as a result John had also been targeted by Moriarty.

It seemed no matter how hard he tried, he would never escape his family’s world- and the rules they insisted on holding him to.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock snapped irritably, sharply turning his head away. “I’m the reason you’re sitting there dead instead of alive.”

John’s gaze narrowed, his expression twisted with a familiar annoyance. “You’re- Sherlock, the only thing you did was not tell me where you going; everything else was all Moriarty.”

“The reason I didn’t tell you my plans was because you did not- and weren’t capable of- fully understanding just what Moriarty was,” Sherlock explained, trying to make John understand. “You would have been involved in a situation you barely understood. I didn’t believe you would prefer such a thing.”

John laughed again, startling Sherlock with the unpredicted response. “Sherlock, living with you is a situation I barely understand. But you don’t see me trying to avoid it at all. You should have let me come with you by choice, Sherlock,” John scolded him earnestly, seriously. “Regardless if I would have been any help or not, I still should have been there.” He sighed, and this endlessly annoyed look Sherlock was more comfortable with. “You should have asked, not gone behind my back. Or set me up to be kidnapped by Moriarty and used as the fifth pip.”

Sherlock now knew how John felt when he didn’t understand John. “It wasn’t as if I knew Moriarty would resort to kidnapping you, John; even if it was a distinct possibility with Moriarty being the… mastermind he is. He knew the options available to him.” He hesitated, actually weighing his words before saying them. “And seeing how powerful Moriarty is, there were countless ones he could have taken. Yet, he chose to take you hostage, strap you with a bomb, and attempted to turn us against each other.” Sherlock frowned, considering; “An interesting choice.”

John’s eyes brightened with interest, his annoyance apparently fading somewhat. “Why interesting? You think he should have chosen something else?”

“Mm, well… It’s reasonable that any magic Moriarty could have used would be much more effective than an ordinary bomb vest and gun. Certain spells well within Moriarty’s abilities can be much more volatile. Considering that, magic would have been a much better choice.”

“Well, we’re lucky he didn’t then,” John replied in what was partially sarcasm and partially something else. Then, after a pause as John likely debated whether or not to ask his question, John said quietly, “So, what did he do then?”

Sherlock took a moment to judge the best way to describe Moriarty’s actions to John so his flat mate would understand. Then he began, “Moriarty was not directly at fault for our deaths. Technically it was the ghouls he summoned who performed the act that killed us.” He had to take a breath to dispel the last remnants of the memories Father’s spell had unearthed; he didn’t want to remember those. “The ghoul in the balcony positioned directly behind me pulled the trigger on accident, setting off the bomb and killing both of us. Moriarty was prepared and managed to protect himself, but once he realized what had happened he performed a spell regarded as very dark and dangerous in order to follow us.”

Sherlock glanced at John in time to take the expression that clearly said John was having trouble understanding his already simple explanation. Sherlock sighed to show his irritation and demanded, “What?”

In response John shifted so they were now completely facing each other. “What, what are you talking about, Sherlock. Ghouls, a dark and dangerous spell? It sounds right out of a fantasy novel. And followed us? Followed where exactly?”

After his barrage of questions John abruptly broke off and straightened into almost a stiff posture, his entire body tense. “You have to remember that I’m not a part of your world, I don’t know this magic like you do. I don’t know anything about it, which means you have to explain so I can.” John sent him a stern look, like the one he used when he wanted Sherlock to think before acting. “So go back to the beginning, and explain.”

Sherlock took a deep, shaky breath at John’s well-meant words and forced himself to relax. “It’s not my world, John,” he corrected sharply, distantly realizing his hands were clenched. “I have no part in it; London is my world. This is one that has existed so long it is destructing on its own; it is highly unlikely it will survive for much longer.”

John shifted slightly and Sherlock could almost see his mind trying to comprehend the weight of what Sherlock was saying. “Then you don’t care at all then?” He questioned, sounding surprised as he still sometimes did. “This world is being destroyed and you’ll just what… stand by? What about your magic?”

“Unlike my brother, father, and the rest of the community,” Sherlock replied, lathering his words with the scorn he felt for these people, “I am not completely dependant on magic. I chose to use my mind to solve problems, which is both much more dependable and logical.” He carefully relaxed his hands and then cleared his throat before continuing. “I have lived until now without needing to use magic to solve my problems, I am quite certain I can continue in the same way.”

He looked up in time to see John giving him a searching look, eyes flickering across his face. Sherlock waited with little patience, refusing to say more; he had aired his grievances with the people of the magical community enough throughout his life that they were very familiar to him. But, as John had said, John himself was not familiar with its world and so didn’t know just how wrong it was.

“Sherlock,” John began to say, drawing out his name. While Sherlock waited for him to continue, John’s expression flickered briefly with uncertainty. “Sherlock,” John attempted a second time after licking his lips, “are you saying you don’t need to use magic, or that you can’t use it.”

Well, it seemed John had spent enough time in his company to gain the ability to single out what he didn’t actually say; it was an ability that would likely be useful later on.

Sherlock fought back a scornful laugh. “Which do you believe is the correct answer, John?” He asked while not quite meeting John’s eyes; he didn’t want to risk giving anything away.

But even though he wasn’t looking, Sherlock could still feel the weight of John’s gaze as he tried to decide.

“I’d say you can’t…” John answered cautiously, obviously speaking his thoughts out loud, “Except, from what I’ve seen, that seems impossible. Isn’t that why Moriarty set his sights on you in the first place… because you’re just as powerful as him?”

“He believed so, yes,” Sherlock acknowledged, nodding once. “And I allowed him to continue thinking so.” He smirked; “I also never said anything to suggest otherwise. It was more that we were equals in our genius.”

John was shaking his head, as if clearing it. “Wait, so are you saying that you really can’t use magic? Not at all?”

It seemed John wasn’t quite overwhelmed enough to notice he hadn’t given an outright answer. Not that he was planning to give John a straight answer anyways.

But before he could answer at all, John added on more questions. “What about your brother, though? And your mother, your father? You’ve said just how powerful they are.”

And there it was, all his teenage years coalesced into a few questions; the disappointment, the questions, the looks and glances- everything he’d had to endure because of one little mistake in his genetic make-up. The one thing about himself he had no control at all over.

Sherlock raised his legs back onto the window seat and then folded them tightly against his chest. Then he replied quietly, each word being forcefully dragged out of him, “they are; each in their own ways.”

John looked as confused as he did sometimes when he couldn’t quite grasp the truth. So Sherlock added before John could ask again, repeating the mantra drummed into his head since he was very small, “Verum quod potentia supremus totus.”

John gave him a blank stare, his mouth a puzzled frown. “And what does that mean then?”

“The Holmes family mantra,” Sherlock explained without any trace of emotion. “Truth and might above all.”

“That,” John commented with an amused laugh, “explains quite a bit about your family. Especially if you’re all so powerful and have that saying to live by.”

Sherlock chose to make an uncommitted noise in reply. Perhaps there was some arrogance, especially with Father, but considering what the Holmes family was capable of when so moved…

“Sherlock,” John said in the tone Sherlock had heard him use in particularly uncomfortable situations. “Did you ever-“ He cleared his throat. “Was there- I mean-“

“Did I ever experience prejudice or harassment because, despite being from a prestigious family, I have no affinity for magic myself?” Sherlock asked quickly, effectively summarizing all of John’s not quite completed questions. He scoffed loudly, “Of course not. The Holmes Family is far above such common things.”

He carefully watched John’s eyes widen and then narrow again as he shook his head. “Right,” John said, obviously skeptical.

Yet instead of pushing him, John seemed to realize that Sherlock didn’t want to discuss this anymore; He coughed and then asked, his voice carefully neutral, “So, what exactly are these ghouls then? And what do they have to do with what happened to us?”

John obviously believed that despite his inability to use magic, Sherlock also existed as an encyclopedia for the magical world. Sherlock searched the somewhat dusty corners of his mind for the information he needed. “Ghouls are the for-hire mercenaries of the Other World, except for they don’t require pay. If a magic user has enough power and will, they can easily manipulate a small number of ghouls. Ghouls only function by the users control, they have no mind of their own. If the connection between the ghouls and their controller is severed, they will disappear back into the Other World,” Sherlock explained all in one long rush, careful merely to recite and not use any inflection in his voice. “However, while they are under a user’s control, they can be extremely ruthless; perfect for Moriarty’s uses.”

John seemed to finally begin to understand his greatly watered-down explanations. “Okay… so Moriarty used these ghouls as the snipers at the pool. And one of the ghouls was technically the one who set the bomb off and killed us.” He nodded as if agreeing with himself. “Alright, so what about how did Moriarty trap us like this?”

Today was a day where he did nothing but explain Sherlock reflected. But seeing as this was John and it was actually important John knew this information, it wasn’t quite as much of a chore. “Moriarty used a spell long forbidden by the White Council in order to follow our spirits into the Realm Beyond. He then used another equally as forbidden curse to pull our spirits back into this Realm. However, he wasn’t quite successful and we became trapped in our skulls instead.”

What Sherlock carefully didn’t say was that Moriarty had only planned to pull him from the Realm Beyond; the reason why John was here at all was because Sherlock had refused to let go of John, causing John to be brought back as well. But he would never admit either.

“By the ‘Realm Beyond,’ you mean the place people go after they die, don’t you?” John asked, carefully double-checking the obvious. “So Moriarty had enough power to bring us back from the dead?”

“The Realm Beyond is much more than simply a place for the dead,” Sherlock answered, irritated yet again with the normal populations small-minded concept of death. “However, if it helps you understand, then yes. And obviously Moriarty did have enough power and will, since we are- quite clearly- here. Yet, under typical circumstances, he shouldn’t have,” Sherlock added since it was likely better for John to know that vital piece of information. “I expect Father and Mycroft are currently working on that conundrum at this moment. I’m also fairly certain they won’t find an answer anytime soon no matter how long they discuss it.”

“Such confidence,” John commented quietly under his breath. Then he continued curiously, “Alright, so we’re now sure this is Moriarty’s fault- which we already suspected. But since this was Moriarty, shouldn’t we have stayed in London? It seemed like that was where he was the most concentrated. He already blew up Baker Street once.”

Sherlock considered another possibility he apparently hadn’t given its fair lengthy consideration. “Moriarty must also have developed a scheme to enter Baker Street, seeing as we woke up in 221C; he planted our skulls inside the wall after somehow getting past the wards.”

“Wait, there were these ward things at Baker Street?” John asked loudly, promptly largely interrupting Sherlock’s train of thought. “Just like the ones you said are here? The ones that shocked me when I came in here?”

A corner of his mouth twitched upward as the wards around his room laughed in his ear. “Not exactly the same, no,” he answered. “The wards around the manor have been built up over more than a century; the wards specifically in this room were put in place by Mummy, and have gathered strength and peculiarities over the time I lived here.”

Now John was the one to look distinctly amused. “Right, so them shocking me was your fault then; indirectly of course.”

Sherlock decided not to answer, since there was a great likelihood it was true. “The wards at Baker Street, however,” he continued as if John hadn’t said anything at all, “are slightly different. Mummy set them up herself to protect us from any magical threats the same day as our meeting at Barts. They are not as powerful as those here; but since there was still a threshold in a place considered a home by more than one person, the wards still held some power. And seeing as Mummy was the one to put them in place, they should have easily prevented Moriarty from getting past at all.”

“Right, our skulls were in 221c,” John jumped in, brow furrowed. “And Moriarty’s the only one who could have put them there.” The last sentence was more of a question than a statement, so Sherlock quickly grabbed on to it.

“He was the only one who could have had our skulls in his possession; he wouldn’t have trusted anyone else with something so important. So there must be a way he discovered to cross the wards.”

“Or Mrs. Hudson. What if she let him in?” John asked, attempting to provide another possibility.

“Mrs. Hudson may be past a certain age, John,” Sherlock scolded, defending the older woman who- for some reason- looked after him. “But she would know better than to allow anyone she wasn’t familiar with inside Baker Street; especially in the days following our death. Both Lestrade and Mycroft would have warned her.”

John turned his head so his gaze fell on Sherlock’s room around them. “Well, I’m glad we ended up in Baker Street… however Moriarty managed it. Even if it does mean we’re now here in this mansion outside of London.”

“It’s a manor, John, not a mansion,” Sherlock corrected his flat mate out of habit. “And the reason we are here instead of staying in Baker Street, is because this manor is better protected, and more secure.”

He was not prepared for the intense, searching look John turned on him then, so he turned his head to stare out the window instead of meeting it. Sherlock wasn’t completely certain why John was looking at him this way, although it seemed likely John had read more into his words than he’d meant.

Sherlock waited for John to speak, or say something painfully obvious. But it was several more seconds before John asked quietly, “you don’t really like it here at all, do you? You’d rather be back at Baker Street, even with the risks.”

Sometimes John could be all too perceptive, although never up to his own standards of coruse. Sherlock made his best attempt to hide the deep-seeded pain stirred yet again into existence by the seemingly simple question. He clasped his hands tightly together and mulled over how to answer in a way that would successfully distract John.

His final answer was, “this place and I do not have the best history, no.”

John looked at him, mouth turned down into a frown. Then he said in the same, careful voice, “And why, is that exactly? What happened, Sherlock?”

He shook his head firmly, still looking out the window. “Nothing,” Sherlock replied mulishly.

John laughed, with a distinctly sarcastic note. “Well,” he said sounding cheerful, “now I know you’re definitely not telling the truth.”

As Sherlock forced back a smile, John added with the cheerfulness gone now, “Tell me, Sherlock; please. I know I probably can’t do anything, but it might help me understand.” A self-insulting laugh; “maybe.”

John Watson, ever the doctor and trying to help people; even in death. But John was John, and different. He had also been suppressing this for a very long time now. Oh, he would never actually completely let it go; seeing as it was such a well-founded grudge against his father, and Mycroft. But it likely wouldn’t do any harm to share, at least not with John.

“I’m considered a disappointment to my family, and the Holmes name,” Sherlock explained tightly, glancing slyly over at John. But for once he had trouble reading the other man’s expression.

With a loud sigh, Sherlock dropped back against the wall of the window seat. After carefully clearing his throat, Sherlock continued on. “Although the Holmes family has not always been as wealthy as we are now, we have always been as powerful. No one in the family has ever been less powerful than a sorcerer.”

“Until you,” John interjected quietly, still giving him that watchful look.

Sherlock pressed his lips together and only gave a sharp smile as an answer. “Father’s an enchanter with ties to high government officials in the magical community, and has the ear of Chrestomanci himself. Mother is a high sorceress with the support of a large majority of the community, as well as ties to the High Council. And Mycroft holds a powerful position and significance in the governments of both worlds.”

Before Sherlock could continue his explanation, John interrupted him with the stern look he used when he wanted Sherlock to listen very closely to what he was about to say. “And then there is you, who uses your skills to help solve crimes and put away the guilty.” He took a deep breath and then said gently, “You might not have any power in the magical sense, Sherlock; but you do have a great amount of influence in London. Between you and the Yard I’m sure you’ve solved thousands of crimes, and put away just as many dangerous people.” John gave him a welcome bright smile. “You do make a difference, Sherlock.”

John was trying in his usual way to try and cheer him up, which Sherlock did appreciate. But at the same time John was also ignoring his own accomplishments. “You’ve also had a significant part in many of those solved cases, John. I’d be lost without my blogger.”

John didn’t seem to believe him if the embarrassed smile was any sign. “More like your sidekick, really.”

But then John’s expression flickered, guilt and apprehension creeping in. “So,” he inquired after a slight pause, “what happened when your mother and father discovered you weren’t as powerful as they expected you to be?”

Sherlock laughed sharply, forcing himself not to tense. “It was just after my thirteenth birthday, the occasion when most magic users begin displaying their powers.” He took a moment to meticulously lock away all the memories appearing from dusty corners of his mind, forcing them back again. Only once that was finished did he continue, doing his best to keep his voice even. “You must understand, John; in a family such as mine, one’s thirteenth birthday is seen as a momentous occasion- a coming of age celebration if you will. Every year until then has been meticulously structured and planned as preparation for that single day.”

He finally directed his gaze onto John, tilting his head. “Can you imagine, John? Your entire life formulated in preparation for one day, one your entire family has waited for; and not only on that day do you discover you don’t have affinity for magic at all, but also that, for that reason, you are now considered a major disappointment to your family and have effectively become an outsider in your own home.” Sherlock coughed suddenly. “All on your thirteenth birthday.”

When only silence followed his last comment, Sherlock glanced curiously at John indirectly. To his surprise John looked upset on his behalf, face set and mouth in a firm line Sherlock recognized.

He waited for John to speak, to say whatever rebuke he was about to give in the quiet, clipped voice John used at these times.

Several seconds later, John opened his mouth and spoke in a carefully neutral voice. “It was your father, wasn’t it? He was the one who thought you were such a disappointment.”

Sherlock just pressed his lips more tightly together to stop himself from answering; instead he turned his head away and clenched his jaw.

In the brief time they had lived together John seemed to have developed some ability to read him. His flat mate moved over on the window seat until they were seated side by side, facing each other again.

Then John repeated, voice incredibly quiet and firm, “Sherlock, you need to answer me: was it your father who felt that way towards you? I can’t imagine your mother, or even My-

John suddenly froze, eyes widening almost comically. Then, with a long exhaled breath, he spoke again. “That’s why your father’s so hostile towards you. Because you can’t use magic like your mother and brother, even if you supposedly should be able to.”

In a strained voice Sherlock replied, “The black sheep of the Holmes family- the worthless son with no power and no ambition; unable to live up to the Holmes family mantra.”

“Sherlock,” John softly said his name. Then he seemed to think better of whatever he had planned to say and said instead, “You might not have any magic, but you have something even better- you use your exceptional brain to do good; that’s even more important.” As if he couldn’t stop himself, John continued, “I also can’t believe your mother and brother- even a brother like Mycroft- treated you the same way. You’re a family.”

Sherlock laughed darkly, the sound escaping his lips before he could stop himself. While he knew John did not come from the most ideal, normal family, it still didn’t mean he understood the complexity and political agenda that surrounded the Holmes family- and had done so for over a century now.

“Despite the common belief, blood is not always the thickest bond, John,” Sherlock informed the other man. “Oftentimes there are much more powerful ones; especially when power and social ties are taken into account.”

John’s expression twisted into one of determination despite his obvious anger, and a quick glance at John’s hand proved it was twitching slightly. Sherlock watched carefully as John seemed to come to a significant decision right before his eyes.

“Even for your own son,” John said quietly, although Sherlock could still hear him perfectly. Then suddenly John was standing again, jaw clenched and a certain look in his eyes.

“John?” Sherlock asked, startled by this reaction. “What-?”

“I think I need to go have a chat with your father,” John said tightly, this time the one not quite meeting his eyes.

Then before Sherlock could convince him otherwise or even respond, John turned and walked out of the room with a single-minded tone to his stride.

Left alone in his room yet again, Sherlock smiled to himself; if only he could listen in on the dressing-down- for it wouldn’t be anything less- John was about to unleash on Father.

But instead he unfolded himself from his place on the window seat and walked over to fall down onto the bed. Then Sherlock settled in to wait for John’s triumphant return, and to once again ponder their current ill-fated situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I hope all of you enjoyed this! Please feel free to let me know what you think!
> 
> Also, sorry about the length. It kind of got away from me.
> 
> I should have the next chapter up next week or the week after. It won't be so long next time, promise.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John and Father Holmes have a face-off, followed by some fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I am so so so sorry about how long this took me to update.
> 
> Funnily enough, this chapter was the second I wrote of this story- after the first chapter- since I had such a strong image of John storming into Father Holmes' study and telling him off for how he acted towards Sherlock.
> 
> But then, three chapters developed between these two chapter so I had to rewrite and tweak this one a little. Also it did just not want to be typed up.
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy this- and that it meets all your expectations and was worth the wait! (See you at the end!)

John was interrupted on his quest to find Father Holmes when he ran into Mycroft closing a wooden door behind him that was just like all the others along the hallway.

He stopped where he was on the carpet and used his slight intellect to figure out what Mycroft could be doing. When he couldn’t come up with anything, except the niggling thought it wasn’t a good sign, John continued forward again- cautiously this time.

But even seeing Mycroft didn’t lessen his anger at all; it almost made it even worse. From the little Sherlock said Mycroft had also treated his brother poorly because of his… unlucky disability. Maybe not as badly as Father Holmes had, and it was too bad John wasn’t alive anymore to physically teach the man a lesson, but he would have thought a man like Mycroft would have known better.

As he drew even with Mycroft, John greeted frostily, “Mycroft; good to see you’re keeping busy.”

Mycroft closed the door with a soft ‘click,’ then turned to face him. He wasn’t carrying his usually ever-present umbrella, which answered John’s question if he was ever without it.

“Ah, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft returned pleasantly. “I’m pleased to see you have emerged from hiding in my brother’s bedroom.” The corner of his mouth lifted just enough it was barely noticeable at all. “I hope you enjoyed your, however brief, respite.”

It wasn’t hard at all to understand what Mycroft was very obviously insinuating. But he didn’t want to give Mycroft the pleasure of actually responding. So instead John replied, not as politely as he could have if he was being honest, “I need to talk with your father. Where can I find him?”

Mycroft only showed surprise for a brief second, both brows lifting, before his expression smoothed out again. “Obviously you have some issue to discuss with Father; however, as I’m sure you can understand, now is not the time,” Mycroft slightly tilted his head in the odd way that made him look even more birdlike. “Perhaps you could come back at another time-?”

“Right, yeah,” John agreed with heavy sarcasm. He gave a jerky nod; “I’ll come back when it’s a more fitting time to tell your father just how much of an arse he is for treating Sherlock like a useless nuisance his entire life; how does that sound?”

For the first time since he met Mycroft, John seemed to have actually surprised the other man; and John was certain Mycroft was rarely surprised. “Well, it’s likely there is no appropriate time for such a discussion. However John, I would advise you-“

“Sorry, but I won’t be taking that advice,” John told him a bit more stern than cheerful. He eyed Mycroft as the elder Holmes shifted just slightly towards the door behind him. “He’s in there, isn’t he?” John asked, not really meaning it as a question. He started forward towards the door, planning to walk around Mycroft.

Mycroft didn’t exactly stop him, not physically, but he did give John a certain look. “John…” The elder Holmes warned in the exact tone John absolutely hated.

“No, Mycroft. Right now I’m going to have words with your father,” John snapped in the same tone he used when telling off Sherlock, only this time his anger was for another reason. “And don’t think I’ve forgotten about you, because next you and I are going to talk about how, even given your and Sherlock’s dysfunctional relationship, that’s not an excuse to treat your brother badly.”

John didn’t get a chance to see Mycroft’s reaction, although he did hope to have at least startled the usually unshakable older Holmes brother.

Instead he took the opportunity to brush past Mycroft to walk through the door and into Father Holmes’ study.

Not being able to burst in did take a bit away from his entry, but John kept on and stopped just in front of the large wooden desk Father Holmes was sitting behind.

“Where the hell do you get off treating one of your own sons,” John shouted in a voice he’d thought he had left behind during his army days, “your own flesh and blood, in such a fucking horrible way?” His fists clenched at his side and he leaned forward just slightly. He usually had a fairly long fuse, maybe tempered a little from being around Sherlock all the time. But Sherlock’s even slightly vague explanations had made him angrier than he’d been in years; especially since now he knew more about Sherlock than when they’d just met all those months ago. “I get that he wasn’t what you expected, but that still doesn’t give you any excuse to just reject him like you did!”

Father Holmes, who had sat quite calmly in his chair without even looking up as John yelled, finally did glance up for only a second or so before he turned his gaze back to the papers spread out on his desk in front of him. “Please have a seat Mr. Watson,” the eldest Holmes male requested peacefully, as if this was nothing more than a business meeting and John hadn’t at all just burst in on him unannounced.

John bristled at this brushoff, and only stood straighter. “It’s Doctor Watson, actually; or Captain.” He glanced sideways at the decorative chair nearest to him. “And I think I’ll stay standing thanks.”

This granted him a slightly longer observant look from Father Holmes before being dismissed yet again. “Yes, I know,” he replied in nearly the same tone Sherlock used when being reminded of something he was already well aware of. “I read the dossier Mycroft prepared on you.”

“W-what?” John stuttered, taken off-guard for a moment (which he really should have expected given this was both Sherlock and Mycroft’s father). “Mycroft prepared a dossier on me?”

Father Holmes gave him a disdainful look that lasted little more than a second. “Of course. He does so for anyone who may become associated with his brother for a lengthy period of time.”

Odd, John thought. Not ‘my son,’ or ‘Sherlock,’ but ‘his brother’… like Mycroft was the only one in the house related to Sherlock. It seemed like just another way Father Holmes pretended to snub his youngest son’s existence. Bloody hell, this man was an absolute snobbish prick; much worse than Sherlock in even his blackest moods.

“I see,” John replied frostily, trying not to grit his teeth. “Well, that was certainly… thorough of him.”

Father Holmes continued to appear to read over the papers on his desk. “He may not have inherited mine or Amelia’s gifts, but he is still a Holmes. We protect our own.” There was just a little too long of a pause before the older man added, “And our friends as well, of course.”

It wasn’t hard for John, with practice by way of Sherlock, to find the hidden message of Father Holmes’ comment. For John it was just one more black mark against the Holmes patriarch, and his hateful behavior towards Sherlock.

“Just like how you protected Sherlock until Moriarty killed us?” He challenged angrily, hearing his voice raise a few notches. But Father Holmes didn’t give any reaction or response. So now it was time for a different tactic. “Is that why you don’t like me then? I’m not good enough, even for your disappointment of a son?”

A brief flicker of light eyes. “Hardly. I’ve allowed you to remain with Sherlock until now, haven’t I?”

John was very sure that had been entirely his decision and Mummy and Mycroft had had no input at all. “Yes, and thank you so much for that,” he answered with sarcasm to spare.

Father Holmes didn’t seem to have noticed at all, oddly enough.

Hell, but the Holmes men were infuriating. Either you were the center of their attention for a few minutes, or they ignored you completely for days and you were considered just a distraction.

“Alright then,” John began determinedly. “So, out of curiosity, why have you been so kind as to let me stay with Sherlock?” There wasn’t as much sarcasm in those words as he could have used. “I’m sure there are lots of people, of your kind, who would be much better suited to living with and protecting Sherlock than a mere human like me.”

“Yes, there are,” Father agreed, uncaring; he didn’t meet John’s eyes again or elaborate more.

“Okay,” John said slowly, trying to convince himself it would be a bad idea to try and physically harm the eldest Holmes. Once he had, for the moment, then he considered the reasons he could think on his own of why he’d been allowed to stay with Sherlock. It wasn’t a very long list. “Is it because I’m a doctor?”

Father Holmes showed just what he thought of that by laughing at him.

“I’m sure you are regarded as a highly talented doctor among your own kind, Doctor Watson,” the Holmes patriarch reassured while at the same time using his title mockingly. “But within the magical community there are many people with a more thorough medical knowledge who appropriately call themselves doctors or healers.” He added, voice minutely warmer, “My wife Amelia is one such person.”

Father Holmes raised his head and, for the first time since John burst in, fixed him with a scrutinizing stare. “In fact,” he said slowly, emphasizing each word, “I’m fairly certain if anyone else had been with Sherlock at the pool, he would still be alive; and you would be living in London, still oblivious to our world.”

Just when he’d thought there had been enough surprises in the past few days to last him the rest of this half-life, Father Holmes went and accused- outright accused- him to be the reason Sherlock died; as if he had just stood by and let Sherlock die without doing anything to stop it. John knew he may be considered as one of the people who thought the best of people, but he could not believe this man would be so cruel that he actually thought John could do such a thing.

“W-what the hell do you mean by that?” John snapped frostily, his temper having completely frayed now.

Father Holmes steadily met his gaze now, even though he’d seemed to have avoided it before. He didn’t even bother to mask his scorn as he replied quite calmly, “Don’t waste my time, Mr. Watson. You heard perfectly what I said.”

John snapped his mouth shut and cleared his throat, glaring as hard as he could at the other man; irritating smug bastard. “It sounded like you were blaming me for Sherlock’s death; saying I wasn’t able to protect him because I’m just a plain human.” John put as much scorn as possible into his next words, “and not ‘gifted’ like you lot are.”

The bastard just raised an inquiring brow at him. “Did it?” He asked innocently, voice pleasant again. “Well, I suppose it’s your leave to interpret my remark in such a self-deprecating manner.”

It was just like Sherlock in one of his impossible moods; when all his attempts to pull Sherlock out of it were met with biting insults, long sulks on the couch, and a multitude of nicotine patches.

But John didn’t know how to, and didn’t want to, deal with Father Holmes like this. So he just kept talking.

“I’ve lived with your son for months now, Mr. Holmes,” John reminded the Holmes patriarch in the voice he used when trying to convince Sherlock to behave. “And I’ve also been kidnapped by your other son several times.” He straightened his shoulders and tried his best to stare down Father Holmes while not quite meeting his gaze. “So I know when I’m being spoken down to by a Holmes. And I’d ask for you not to.”

Father Holmes studied him for long enough that John eventually became uncomfortable and looked down at the desk. He may be somewhat used to Sherlock’s piercing gaze and being under his flat mate’s study, but even Sherlock had nothing on his father. Father Holmes was just downright unnerving.

And when the Holmes patriarch chose to spoke again, John could plainly hear the smirk in the older man’s voice. “You do have some courage, Mr. Watson. I will credit you that; however little it will help you.” He exhaled loudly before adding quickly, “I suspect that may be why Sherlock enjoys your company so. You don’t mind recklessly endangering your life for little reason.”

“Actually, there is a reason Sherlock and I endanger our lives,” John replied heatedly, wanting to wipe the smirk off the patriarch’s face. “And alright, he might do it because he thinks it’s fun, but Sherlock also does it to help protect people.” John narrowed his eyes and added meaningfully, “Like protecting them from a certain madman who is apparently not just a genius but also a very powerful… sorcerer. One who seems to have slipped your notice.”

“Necromancer,” Father Holmes corrected him, voice sharp with annoyance. “As far as we can tell Moriarty appears to be a necromancer. It is the only explanation for how he was able to retrieve both of your spirits from the Other Side.”

“Right, the Other Side,” John parroted involuntarily as he caught up with the abrupt change in topic.

While he was still very determined to tell off Father Holmes more about his treatment of his youngest son, John wasn’t that much of an idiot not to take an opportunity to learn more about this crazy world he was now in. Especially since the oldest Holmes seemed to be willing to share information at the moment, for some reason.

He also noted how the older man hadn’t responded to his comment about missing Moriarty. Typical Holmes. “And, I’m just checking, that would be the same as ‘from the dead’?”

“It is much more complicated than that,” the Holmes patriarch replied in Sherlock’s ‘you’re being an idiot but I’ll humor you just this once’ voice. “Modern literature and entertainment of this time have greatly simplified and embellished the process.”

‘This time?’ John’s brain silently parroted; he was afraid to consider just what that comment might mean about Father Holmes.

“In reality, the ordeal is an extremely intricate one, and needs an immense amount of power and will.” Father Holmes explained, and then clasped his fingers together. “It is not one to be undertaken without great caution and willingness to accept severe consequences.”

“Right,” John commented, thinking that sounded oddly familiar. He cast around in his mind for the conversation it had come from. He’d had to process so much over the last day or so that it was almost a wonder he could remember anything.

But he remembered it had first been said by Mycroft, and then repeated by Sherlock just minutes ago, so that meant…

“Mycroft said earlier, back in 221c, that doing something like this is forbidden by-“

“The High Council, yes,” Father Holmes interrupted him again before John could even finish the sentence. “In fact, even planning such an act can carry the consequence of execution by the Council. Of course this is understandable seeing as the action expressly goes against one of our most fundamental laws.”

When Father Holmes didn’t continue what could have loosely been called an explanation, John prodded none-too-gently, “And what law would that be then?”

His completely innocent question led him to be treated to yet another long, scornful look; this one even more disapproving then the others. And once Father Holmes seemed to finally come to whatever decision he’d been considering, he shifted slightly and leaned back in his chair.

“It would take me much longer than the time I have to explain all the detailed workings of our world to you, Doctor Watson,” Father Holmes explained with a level stare John was used to from the older Holmes brother. Then he continued, speaking like John was a simple child, “This is knowledge people of our world, no matter their skill level, spend decades, sometimes centuries, learning through experience and from the more experienced practitioners in our world. It may seem like our gifts help to make our lives easier, but in fact it is the exact opposite. Having such power only leads to more rules and regulations that need to be followed.”

The critical look faded slightly back into a mild expression with only a slight downward tilt to his mouth. “And no matter how Sherlock protests or fights against it, he remains a part of this world that he was born into.”

“So if Sherlock really is still part of this world of yours,” John continued curiously. “And I’m not a part of your world at all, then why have I been allowed to stay with Sherlock for so long? It’s obviously not because I’m a doctor, not after what you said.” He gave the man his own tight-lipped smile. “I’m sure a man like you, and Mycroft, could only too easily find a way to make me vanish off the face of the earth.”

Father Holmes treated him to a tense, tight smile. “Both Mycroft and myself could do such a thing, yes.”

It was the same secretive, not-really-an-answer response John would have expected from Mycroft during the conversations with the elder Holmes that he could never really follow. All the Holmes seemed to speak an entirely different language than everyone else that only they understood. Of course they couldn’t just be normal.

“It would likely be very easy to make you disappear.” The older man’s brow furrowed for a few seconds. “It would have been.”

Right. Now that he and Sherlock were… this way, John doubted any of the Holmes’-but especially Father Holmes and Mycroft- would be able to separate him from Sherlock, no matter how much they tried.

“It would have been easy, but you still didn’t,” John observed, interested as to why this man would give him this one thing. He crossed his arms. “I think that says something in itself.”

Father Holmes made an annoyed noise and broke eye contact to look down at his papers for the first time in minutes. “Yes, it says that I saw value in keeping you with Sherlock.” He gave John a skeptical glance. “I’m told you’ve been a rather positive influence on him.”

But you don’t believe it’s true, John finished the rest of the comment silently. “And that’s it; that’s the only reason I wasn’t somehow stopped from moving in with Sherlock, from being a part of his life.”

Another elegantly raised brow was all the response he got. “What Sherlock does with his time in London is none of my concern. It’s merely my duty as a parent to make sure he interacts with the right people and takes part in nothing that can cause him extensive harm.” The entire time he spoke his voice stayed completely level, not giving away any reaction. “Otherwise, as long as he remembers that he cannot escape his family or our world, Sherlock is free to do whatever he wishes.”

John tried not to laugh, he really did, at the absurdity of this. “Well you’re bloody well failing in your so called duties as a parent then because that pretty well describes Sherlock’s entire fucking life! He solves crimes with the police, he gets off running after criminals, and he gets injured on an almost daily basis! Sherlock puts himself in harms way every fucking day, and I’m just there trying my best to keep him alive and entertained, never mind healthy! So I’m pretty bloody sure I’ve done more for him in the few months I’ve been his friend, doctor, and flat mate, than you have during his entire life as his father!”

As John attempted to catch his breath after his long and rather explosive speech, John watched Father Holmes’ face for a reaction of any kind.

But all he received was a mild reproachful, as the man didn’t even meet his eyes, “There’s no need for such language, Mr. Watson.”

A choked laugh that lifted a little at the end escaped from his mouth. “I’m not being hysterical, Mr. Holmes,” he replied not very politely, a rough edge to his voice. “I’m commenting on your quite honestly bloody awful skills as a parent. Especially towards your youngest son; the one you were never really a father to.”

Father Holmes looked only slightly annoyed by John’s reply, if his deep frown was anything to go by. “By the time he was born I had finally managed to secure, after years of difficult and strenuous work, a major position with Chrestomanci Castle which has allowed me to support my family and be able to bring it to the prowess as it is known today.” His shoulder moved in a small shrug. “And, as with all work, sometimes it takes precedence; even over family.”

John found himself skeptical of the Holmes patriarch’s explanation, even if it did explain quite a lot about their family politics. “And he also already had a mother, and older brother, to look after him,” he added for the other man, as if Father Holmes needed more excuses for his attitude towards Sherlock.

Some odd look that John couldn’t possibly read briefly passed across the patriarch’s face. “Yes, that is also true, I suppose,” he agreed with what was possibly hesitation- if he had been anyone other than a Holmes.

“So, of course he didn’t also need a partly consistent father figure in his life, instead of one who was never there at all.” John responded in a fake light tone as he fought to keep his voice steady. What was with these Holmes’? For all their claims to be geniuses, they could be ridiculously idiotic when it came to personal and emotional matters.

He seemed to have finally struck a nerve since Father Holmes actually looked visibly upset by his accusation- the first time he’d really visibly reacted. “You know nothing of our world, Mr. Watson,” the older man warned, voice dripping with scorn and ice. “I will not have you judge my past actions when you know nothing of the circumstances involved or the situation I made them in.”

John rubbed his forehead vigorously. Really, all the Holmes men. “Then, for fuck’s sake tell me!” He very nearly shouted. “I can’t learn or understand until you help me to. I’m not a Holmes; I can’t pick a few things out and put them together into a logical conclusion, and I can’t learn or understand anything in a matter of seconds. My brain doesn’t work at a higher, superhuman level.”

When John took a quick respite to breathe, he could have sworn he heard Father Holmes comment quietly, “And rightly so.”

Well, that was him told. But while it did annoy him that the patriarch thought so lowly of him, John was here for Sherlock. So he just continued with his tirade, using the opportunity to express his fury at Father Holmes.

“I didn’t even have any idea about this other world, that’s apparently been here the entire time, until I ended up getting killed by one of its powerful madmen who seems to have been allowed to roam free unchecked, by you.” He paused for a moment before continuing not quite as angrily, “Sherlock has a habit of running off without telling me what he’s doing, but that’s going to stop now because it’s part of why this happened to us. He didn’t only go off to meet Moriarty on his own, but he also didn’t tell me just who, or what, Moriarty was. I ended up getting kidnapped by a man I knew nothing about, except that he was probably just as brilliant as Sherlock.”

John fixed Father Holmes with his sternest look as he warned, “So I would appreciate it, Mr. Holmes, if you would give me time to figure out just what the hell is going on before you start writing me off as ignorant or unable to understand. I may not be a Holmes, but I still can think for myself.”

For some reason that John didn’t completely (at all) understand, this drew a smile from the older man. John shifted in response, trying to hide his building unease from the shark in the water.

After a likely longer than necessary pause Father Holmes commented, his hands clasped in front of him, “Mycroft did say you were refreshingly intelligent- for a regular human of course. We were still rather surprised, however, when you didn’t run screaming after several days of sharing rooms with Sherlock. I’m told Sherlock is considered even more eccentric and unusual amongst the ordinary humans who know him.” The smile flickered as the Holmes patriarch added distastefully, “Amelia was greatly pleased, of course. She had always hoped he would find a companion of some kind.”

Well at least that made one Holmes on his side. He wasn’t as sure about Mycroft; the man was nearly impossible to read; although he did seem a little more amiable now than during their first meeting in the empty warehouse.

And of course it was obvious, even to him, how Father Holmes felt about him.

“So he actually is your son then?” John asked, freely letting his skepticism show. “Even if he chooses to live in ‘ordinary’ London, with an ‘ordinary’ flat mate, and work a… alright, it is an unusual job, but still.”

Father Holmes mouth twitched a little, but he appeared completely calm as he replied, “Sherlock is merely rebelling against a world that- he believes- is doing all it can to constrict him.” He carefully shrugged his shoulder, “He will understand in time that this is not true, and he is merely imagining things.”

“In time…” John repeated in disbelief; he wondered if Father Holmes had not quite understood what Sherlock and him being like this meant; or maybe he was just in denial… That was more Holmesian.

Well, no time like the present.

“Your son is dead, Mr. Holmes. And the only reason why we’re even talking about Sherlock, why he’s here right now, is because his actual archenemy was somehow powerful enough to bring us back from the dead.” John reminded the man yet again, almost barking at him out of pure frustration. “It’s a little late to hold out hope that Sherlock will change his mind.” He let himself smile a little, “Especially given how stubborn he can be.”

After a very long pause Father Holmes announced, sounding not all that apologetic, “I’m afraid we will have to end this very, informative,” John was sure he’d had to stop himself from using a much less polite term; all the Holmes men were politicians, except Sherlock who wasn’t like one at all, “conversation here, Mr. Watson.” Father Holmes gathered the papers together into one pile. “I’m afraid I have some rather sudden immediate business to take care of.”

Wonderful, he was being dismissed yet again. At least he had somehow managed to keep Father Holmes’ attention for this long of a conversation. For a minute or so John watched the older man study what must have been very important papers since he was ignoring him so determinedly.

Then, not quite on impulse, John asked, “More important than reconciling with your youngest son, now that it’s almost too late?”

Father Holmes treated him to a cold glare over the top of the papers. “I am using all my available powers and resources to find a way to end the man who dared do this to my son, Mr. Watson.” Rustling the papers in his hand, the older man began reading through them again. “I apologize if that is not enough for you.”

In the lengthy, awkward silence that followed, John let out a long sigh; well, that was him told- again.

Since the conversation was obviously over- for now- and he had managed to relieve some of his anger with Father Holmes, John turned and walked back towards the door. It was only manners that made him call ‘I’ll see myself out, shall I?’ over his shoulder to the man who had probably already forgotten he’d been there.

Then John walked out the door and turned down the hall the way he’d come. Mycroft had disappeared to somewhere else in the mansion, so this time he wasn’t interrupted on his walk back to Sherlock’s tower room.

This time he remembered to walk through the door instead of knocking on it, and when he passed through the doorway at the top of the stairs, the wards didn’t bother him.

Sherlock was lying sprawled across the bed, the duvet beneath him giving no indication he was there. His flat mate wasn’t facing the door, but as John crossed the room and came over to the bed, Sherlock asked, “So, have you managed to defend my honor then?”

John managed a tired chuckle and brushed his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’m not sure; it was hard to tell.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, sighing at the relief after having been standing up for so long. “But what honor you do have is well-defended.” John turned to smile at Sherlock, “So there’s no need to worry about that.”

After enough time had gone by that John thought Sherlock might not answer, there was a quiet murmur of, “I wasn’t.”

He was practically beaming at Sherlock’s back now. “Of course you weren’t.” Then, a little more seriously, John added, “I won’t apologize, Sherlock. After what you told me I couldn’t just let him think he had gotten away with it. It wasn’t right, and you deserve better.”

John almost missed Sherlock’s lazy drawl of, “Your loyalty is appreciated, John. Misguided perhaps, but appreciated.”

“I have been told I seem to become very loyal, very quickly,” John teased over the warmth building in his chest; “Especially towards a certain consulting detective who insists on making me run all over London with him.”

Sherlock’s form twitched faintly. “Of course Mycroft would disapprove of your fierce loyalty.” He made an amused noise. “The hypocrite; He wanted someone I couldn’t scare off after a few days and would actually stay.”

John frowned, considering this as he raised his legs to recline on the bed next to Sherlock. “He offered me money to spy on you that first night; to keep you safe.”

Sherlock exhaled noisily through his nose, a sound that could have been called a snort. “Merely a measure to make sure you couldn’t be easily bribed by anyone else, and were actually loyal.” He loudly rolled his eyes. “Mycroft tends to worry too much. It’s one of his greater faults.”

“Your father said that it wasn’t because they trusted my ability to protect you that he and Mycroft didn’t ship me off to some remote island the day we met,” John told Sherlock as he shifted a little closer. “Even after all he said I’m still not sure I do understand why.”

Sherlock didn’t actually respond to that, he just made a quiet thoughtful noise like he did when he was thinking.

In the comfortable silence that followed, unlike the tense ones with the Holmes patriarch, John leaned backward using his hands to support himself. He took the time to listen to Sherlock’s breathing and the sounds of the house around them.

It was so very different from Baker Street… that might be what startled him the most. Despite its long history of being occupied by the Holmes family, the house didn’t have the same warm, familiar sense of home that John had really only found in the army before finding Sherlock and Baker Street. This manor felt coldly restricting, like it was closing in and any breath might be his last. Even after a few hours he felt like there was no room to breathe, or to grow.

At the moment it was also disturbingly quiet. Everyone else must have been holed up somewhere writing up battle plans.

John sighed and then found himself fighting back a yawn. He wasn’t surprised since he really was very tired, but it wasn’t good to sleep just now. They should go and hel-

“You’ll break your jaw if you keep doing that,” Sherlock warned him calmly, and then rolled over onto his stomach. “And you aren’t really tired; your mind is just making you think you are.”

“Well I’m not about to argue with it,” John replied, and then had to quickly muffle yet another yawn. “You’re probably even more exhausted; before the pool you hadn’t slept in days.”

Sherlock buried his head in his folded arms, deliberately not looking at John. “’M not,” he replied in a muffled voice that betrayed him. “My body already knows it doesn’t need sleep; I’ll be fine for another week. Besides, now that we’re dead it’s completely unnecessary for us to sleep. There’s no point to it.”

Ever the logical scientist, John thought with not quite as much annoyance as he should have. “There might not be any point, but it is still something I would like to do.” John looked carefully at his friend, noting how relaxed he looked for once- even with what was happening with Moriarty. A fond smile twisted his mouth. “You’re nearly asleep, aren’t you?”

Sherlock’s only response was a barely understandable, “mmm.”

“Alright, I’ll let you sleep then,” John said as he sat up and swung his legs back over the side of the bed. “You need it more than I do,” he added as he stood up.

But before John could even begin moving towards the door, an iron grip wrapped around his wrist. “Don’t go,” Sherlock demanded, his body staying almost unnaturally still. “I won’t sleep, anyway.”

John turned back so he was facing the bed at an angle, but made sure not to dislodge his friend’s hand; not that he could with how tightly Sherlock was holding on. “You look about ready to drop off,” he observed amused.

“Is that your professional opinion as a doctor?” Sherlock mumbled in inquiry. When John didn’t answer he sighed, and explained in his usual vague manner, “I can’t sleep here, it’s too quiet.”

Another detail about Sherlock clicked into place in John’s mind. “That’s why you moved to London, isn’t it? There were more people and action; you could distract yourself.”

It was hard not being able to see Sherlock’s expression, but John could guess it was his flat mate’s usual careful mask. “Part of why, yes,” Sherlock agreed with what sounded like tight reluctance. But he didn’t offer any further explanation, typically enough.

John lightly tugged on his hand, and Sherlock did actually let go. “Right. I’ll put some music on then, shall I? Some of the violin music you like?”

Sherlock’s arm fell down to hang limply over the side of the bed. “You can’t,” he replied, his voice even softer and more muffled than before. “Can’t work the player.”

There seemed to be an awful lot of disadvantages to being dead, or whatever they were. But at least he and Sherlock appeared to still be able to touch. “I’ll go find someone to work it then,” John offered.

“Mummy please,” Sherlock requested, his voice barely a whisper as he finally fell asleep. “She’ll be the least likely to make fun.”

This family really was ridiculous.

“Alright, I’ll go find her,” John promised as he walked over to the door. “You try and sleep.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, but that was alright because John could hear the rhythmic breathing coming from the bed that meant Sherlock was sleeping.

Smiling to himself- Sherlock definitely did still need looking after- John went through the doorway and back down the stairs.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

End of Act One (see author notes below)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I hope all of you enjoyed this! And that it was worth the wait ;)
> 
> Please feel free to let me know what you think! Everything welcome ^^
> 
> And as you might have noticed, this ends "Act One" of this story. Next time we leave the Holmes family and John to catch up with Lestrade.
> 
> Side note: I'm currently looking for a beta and/or britpicker for a Mycroft & Sherlock backstory fic I've been working on. If anyone's interested or wants more information, feel free to message me <3
> 
> Thanks for reading! See you next time!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg manages to get a hold of the elusive Holmes family, and then ends his day with a rather painful confrontation with a certain criminal mastermind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Everyone who's managed to stay around at least, and any new people!
> 
> Well, a month isn't too long. It could have been longer... not that any of you will find that reassuring.
> 
> Anyways, this is the first part of the first chapter of act two of this 'turning out to be an epic' story. I didn't really write it in two parts, so I'm afraid there's a bit of a cliffhanger at the end. Apologies in advance.
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy this- and that it meets all your expectations and was worth the wait! (See you at the end!)

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade sat back in his chair, closing his eyes for a brief respite from the folders in front of him. In his hand the phone continued to ring, as if it thought he had all the time in the world. Greg didn’t expect anyone to answer on the other end; they were probably just as busy as he was. But Greg still hoped someone would pick up, if only so he knew this was the right number.

Finally just when he was sure the phone would ring out, and he was about to hang up the phone, there was a soft click in his ear.

“Holmes manor,” a somewhat familiar voice greeted, sounding distracted and preoccupied from whatever it’d been doing. “This is Mycroft speaking.”

Greg tried not to sound like a nervous, intimidated teenager. He really did. It was just that the elder Holmes brother unsettled him as much as the younger annoyed him. “Mr. Holmes?” He asked, then cleared his throat. “This is Detective Inspector Lestrade.”

“Yes, Detective Inspector. Hello.” Mycroft sounded almost like Sherlock did when he refused to take time for social pleasantries. “How can I help you?”

“You can’t,” Greg quickly replied and then realized that sounded rude. “I mean, that’s not why I called.” He rubbed his brow, trying to figure out a better way to explain himself.

“Detective Inspector,” whispered a soft sigh in his ear. 

Greg quickly spoke up again. “Our investigation is… progressing,” Greg hedged carefully. “But we have managed to uncover more information about Moriarty. Or we believe we have.”

“Oh?”

If the note of interest in that single syllable was anything to go by, he seemed to have finally grabbed Mycroft’s attention. “Yeah,” he said, sitting up so he could look over the case notes he had made. “Uhm,” he said, reading quickly. “He’s likely from an Irish family. There’s a mother and father still living, each with their own small business.”

Before Greg could continue sharing, Mycroft Holmes snapped sharply in his ear. “Yes, yes we already have all of that information,” he said with a strange rough edge to his voice. “Do you have anything else?”

Despite his years of experience with Sherlock, Greg still found himself wrong-footed by Mycroft Holmes’ manner. Being familiar with one brother did not completely prepare you for the other. “Ah,” he stumbled, “Well…”

“Mycroft,” an older woman’s voice scolded suddenly, interrupting both of them. There was a loud crackling noise that made Greg pull the phone away from his ear, so he only just caught the end of the woman saying “-be so rude.”

Mycroft Holmes must have covered the mouthpiece with his hand since Greg had a hard time hearing as he said, “I wasn’t being rude, Mummy. I-“

She didn’t give him a chance to finish. “Hand me the phone, Mycroft,” Mummy said sternly in almost the same voice Greg had heard John use to manage Sherlock. “Please go find your brother and John.”

“Mummy,” Mycroft started to protest; but then ‘Mummy’ must have done something because Mycroft replied meekly, “Yes, Mummy.”

There was such a long pause of silence that Greg wondered if he had been hung up on or forgotten.

Then the woman’s smooth, posh accent from earlier said, “I apologize Detective Inspector.” Greg found himself straightening in response, just as he had done with Mycroft. “My sons forget themselves sometimes.” Amusement crept into her voice as she continued, “I believe you have experience with Sherlock in that respect.”

While Mummy Holmes seemed like a very nice woman, Greg still thought it would be better not to respond- to actually laugh. So instead he said, “It’s perfectly fine, Mrs… Holmes?”

The woman laughed in amusement. “Mrs. Holmes makes me feel old, Detective Inspector. Please call me Amelia, or Mummy if you’d prefer.”

“Yes, Mummy Holmes…” Greg replied, and then found himself wincing. That really didn’t sound right; it was rather personal. All the Holmes seemed a bit off, but he especially wasn’t going to call Mrs. Holmes out on it.

“How is your investigation preceding Detective Inspector?” Mummy Holmes asked, likely only asking to be polite. He couldn’t imagine a woman like her would be interested in NSY procedure. “I hope you aren’t overworking yourself.”

“No, ma’am,” Greg agreed quickly, knowing he was covering. He wasn’t really overworking himself; he was just doing what he needed to make sure the culprit was caught- even if Moriarty was proving incredibly elusive and dangerous.

Greg would never admit it out loud, but he missed Sherlock showing up on his crime scenes in a whirlwind of insults, flitting around the place, and spouting off clues and observations while practically solving the case for them.

Well, maybe he didn’t exactly miss it, but Greg would appreciate Sherlock’s skills in this case. At least he was finding it difficult, from the little Mycroft Holmes had said he seemed to be much more successful.

Maybe it was about time to bring Sherlock back in, or at least speak with him if he could…

“Mrs. Holmes… Mummy Holmes,” Greg quickly corrected himself, trying his best even though it still didn’t sound right. “I’d like to speak to Sherlock, or John if that’s possible. They’re there, aren’t they?”

“Mm, yes…” ‘Mummy Holmes’ hummed thoughtfully. “However, I’m not so sure that would be- They are likely busy at the moment.”

Greg switched the phone to his other ear and tried again. He understood Mummy was trying to protect both Sherlock and John, but he did really need to talk to them. “Can I talk to him for a minute at least? It would be about the case, and Moriarty. I really only need a minute.”

There was another long pause as Mummy seemed to consider. “By your request I get the unfortunate impression that your investigation isn’t going well,” Mummy told him sounding quite regretful. At least she didn’t sound angry, that was a good sign. But he still got the sense she was disappointed in him, and somehow that was worse. It was the same as when Sherlock accused him of being a slow-witted idiot, (amongst a larger ream of insults he seemed to always have in reserve). Greg was always annoyed whenever Sherlock chose to insult him, but he still hated the younger man’s disappointment; feeling he could have done better.

“That’s not exactly what I meant, ma’am,” Greg hedged carefully. “I simply meant that I wondered if your family had found out any more about Moriarty. From what Mycroft said, it sounded like you had.” He paused before admitting reluctantly (he didn’t like admitting his incompetence to any Holmes, but Mummy Holmes seemed the best of the lot), “I figured with the greater amount of resources your family has, you would have been able to get further.”

Greg considered his explanation had been successful when Mummy Holmes laughed again. “Sherlock might not think much of your mind, Detective Inspector, but that does not mean you should think so little of yourself.” He was almost certain she was smiling. “The fact that Sherlock has not driven you away after all this time is an excellent indicator that he values you more than he will ever admit.”

For a second it felt like the world had tilted on its axis. “Values me?” Greg echoed quietly, astounded by this. He knew Sherlock valued him as a source of disturbing cases for his entertainment, but not for anything else.

Another soft laugh. “Yes, Detective Inspector. He values you. Mycroft and I had been arguing with Sherlock, pleading with him, to get clean. But finally you were the one to convince him, Detective Lestrade.”

“That was only because he wanted cases,” Greg admitted, not quite sure why she was thanking him. “The only reason I could convince Sherlock to become clean was because I promised him interesting cases to solve if he did.”

“You sell yourself short, Detective Inspector. Like many seem to unfortunately, but I am-“

Before she could finish, Greg heard what sounded like muffled shouting coming from the other side. He couldn’t quite make out what was being said, but it was indeed arguing.

After a moment Mummy sighed tiredly and told him, “I should go, Detective Inspector. It sounds as if Sherlock and Mycroft, or their father, have fallen into a quarrel again. I had better go see what can be done.”

That was such a surprise; he had witnessed a glimpse of the hostility between the Holmes brothers. The same between Sherlock and his father would not come as much of a surprise to him. Well there was nothing he could do then. “I’ll leave all of you to it then.”

He was about to hang up, certain she hadn’t heard him, when Mummy Holmes spoke again. “Detective Inspector, just a moment please. I would like to thank you for looking after my son.”

“You mean, Sherlock,” Greg clarified, not wanting to think about the poor person who tried to look after the elder Holmes son.

“Yes, of course,” Mummy agreed. “I am well aware it is a difficult task, and one you don’t receive many thanks for. But I myself am very grateful to you.”

Greg ducked his head slightly, leaning forward over his desk. Being part of the police, especially as a DI, was relatively thankless. “Thank you, Mrs. Holmes.”

“You’re welcome, DI,” she replied cheerfully. Then the noise broke out behind her so loudly that Greg had to hold the phone away from his ear in order to not be deafened.

He listened to the raised voices for a while before Mrs. Holmes’ called, just barely audible over the noise, “One more thing, DI. Please take care of yourself. You might not be part of our community, but you are most definitely a friend of the family; and of course, you are involved with this situation of ours.” She paused to call something in the direction of the yelling, and then added to him, “I also wouldn’t recommend being outside on your own after dark falls. Especially in less welcome areas of London, or during storms, or the full moon. It is important for you to stay safe, DI. I’m sure all of us would rather not have anything happen to you.”

“Mm, right,” Greg agreed uncomfortably. So he was considered part of the Holmes family then, Greg wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that. He didn’t know much about them, other than his dealings with Sherlock and his few with Mycroft. But it seemed Mummy Holmes was trying to look after him as well. “Of course.”

Mummy laughed kindly at him. “Well, I am at least,” she reassured Greg honestly. A loud crash sounded from somewhere behind her. “Oh dear, they seem to have broken something now. I had better check on them. But please do keep in touch, Detective Inspector,” Mummy Holmes requested in a rushed voice before she suddenly hung up on him.

As the dial tone sounded in his ear, Greg wondered just what he had really gotten himself involved in. It was nearly impossible to solve a case without all the data and information he needed; yet here he was with a large, gaping hole in what could be the most important case he ever worked.

How did the Holmes’ expect him to help if they didn’t give him the right information, or did they even expect him to help at all?

Nonetheless, maybe it was time for a trip to the Holmes manor. It wasn’t like he was getting much done here at the moment without any leads to look into. His team would be able to work just as hard without his supervision.

Greg pushed back his chair and pulled his coat off the back. As he pulled on the coat, Greg happened to look over his shoulder to see it was already dark out. Obviously he had been working much longer than he’d noticed. The hours always seemed to either flash or drag by while he was at the office.

But it was just the same route home from the office he’d taken for years. He knew it by heart, even if he had to travel in the dark.

~~~~

Greg’s first conscious thought was that his entire body ached horribly. He wasn’t sure if there was any part of his body that wasn’t sore.

This wasn’t his first time being drugged, unfortunately, as a homicide inspector it came with the work; but this was the first the hangover had gotten to this excruciating level.

“Good mooorning, Detective Inspector!” An altogether too cheerful voice sang from very close to his ear.

Greg winced as the noise pierced sharply through his brain, awakening it just enough to raise a protest at the sound. On its’ own accord, his body tried to move away from the source of the pain, only to find itself not able to move at all.

Well, that wasn’t good.

The same voice clicked its tongue disapprovingly. “Now, now, DI. There’s no need to struggle. Please, make yourself at home.”

“Bit hard to do when I’m restrained like this,” Greg said in what he had planned to be a sharp retort, but it came out as more of a hoarse mumble.

His captor seemed to find this amusing since they laughed cheerfully. “You are quite a character, aren’t you?” The person added thoughtfully, “Perhaps that is why he continues to suffer your idiotic presence.”

It was said airily, but Greg could hear the sharpness. He quickly opened his eyes, only to meet a cool, amused gaze.

For some reason what he had meant to say was completely wiped from his mind. His jaw locked into place, and no matter how hard he tried Greg couldn’t do anything but stare into those eyes.

“I see Sherlock failed to warn you about meeting the gaze of our kind,” the person observed happily, still not breaking their eye contact. “I suppose he also forgot to mention soul gazing, didn’t he.”

The voice sounded far too amused by Sherlock’s tendency to withhold important information more often than Greg was comfortable with. He managed to blink several times, before he was able to ask with a stutter he hadn’t ever had before, “W-what exactly did Sherlock keep from me this time?”

The man, even in his barely conscious state, Greg was certain the person currently mocking him was male, flashed a sharp smile- with teeth- at him. “You are quite adorable,” the man commented to himself; those eyes briefly flickered over his face in a way that Greg found incredibly disturbing. “Even more than I expected.”

Greg meant to take advantage of the absence of that gaze to question the man, but then, as if he was aware of this plan, the cold eyes snapped back to his.

“Oh, Greg, Greg, Greg,” the man scolded sadly, shaking his head in time to his words. “I’ll have none of that, understand?”

Greg treated the man to the best glare he could manage at the moment. “What do you want with me?” He asked, licking his lips to wet them. “I’m just a Detective Inspector. I can’t do anything for you.”

The eyes absolutely gleamed in the low light. “You don’t know who I am, do you DI? You have no idea at all.”

Greg suddenly had a very strong urge to roll his eyes at this. This man was just as horrible as Sherlock when he had an epiphany but refused to share it out loud.

“You don’t know just what I can do to you, for you,” the man continued to chide, eyes still over-bright. “You have no idea exactly what you’ve become wrapped up in,” he paused for what was likely effect, leaning in even closer towards Greg, “Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.”

While the man was indeed frightening, it didn’t fully explain the strong chill that crept up his spine when the man said his name, caressing almost each syllable. His reaction also made the man give that sharp, toothy smile again; then the stranger leant in, expression like a snake getting ready to strike. “Excellent, that is your name then; just I thought.”

When Greg had managed to catch his breath again, and since when did someone just saying his name make him lose his breath?- he asked angrily, “Alright, so you know my name then. Fine. What’s yours then?”

“What,” the man replied, sounding quite surprised, “you haven’t guessed yet?”

“No,” Greg said irritably, “being restrained seems to have slowed my mind a bit.” He glared at the other man. “Maybe you could refresh me a bit.”

This made the man actually laugh at him, and then treat Greg to a look as if he was a prized pet that had suddenly spoken English.

“I expected you to be a bit smarter, DI. Especially given your long acquaintance with the late Sherlock Holmes,” he scolded, saying the name scathingly.

Well, that was a bit of a clue. Now he just had to put it together…

“Oh, come Detective Inspector,” the man tsked, “you know the answer to this. Use that small mind of yours.”

He really did sound like Sherlock at his most insulting. Speaking of, hadn’t he been on his way to see Sherlock and John? Greg could remember getting in the car, but not anything after.

“Did you have me kidnapped?” He accused, and then took his eyes off the man for just a second to look around them. There wasn’t much he could see beyond the small circle of light they were in. The man had successfully trapped him, not even stating the restraints.

The man gave a soft sigh and moved away from him just enough that Greg could begin to breathe again. “I prefer not to think of it as kidnapping you, DI. More of just a little chat between… well, not friends. But still a chat.”

Then the shoe dropped. Well, the other one.

Greg jerked his head up to stare openly at the man. “You’re Moriarty; the one everyone’s looking for.”

The man- Moriarty- just smiled at him, and didn’t say a word.

“They all think you’re planning a major stunt of some sort,” Greg said, feeling like his mouth was running off without him minding it. “Yet here you are, kidnapping me.”

“Oh, Greg, Greg,” Moriarty scolded. “You think so little of yourself, which is probably for the better since you aren’t really all that important. But yet, for some reason I don’t really understand, Sherlock Holmes has endured your company.” Moriarty gave an airy shrug, “So it seems I’m forced to include you in my plans as well, which includes kidnapping you at this time.”

“Right,” Greg replied, having a little trouble following this. “I’d really rather you didn’t. And if you brought me here thinking I’d help you, you’ll find yourself disappointed.”

Moriarty’s eyes widened dramatically. “Ooh, it has bite!” 

Greg just glared at him. “So will you tell me why you’ve kidnapped me, or just leave me in suspense?”

“Well…” Moriarty drew out slowly, as if he were actually considering the decision, “To gather some more information on this situation of ours. Sherlock and his pet are holed up someplace where I can’t get to just yet, so I’m forced to resort to kidnapping the clueless DI they’ve just let roam free without bothering to protect at all.”

Maybe he didn’t have all the answers to this, like Sherlock would and probably did. But he wasn’t completely clueless. And, instead of staying hidden somewhere, Greg was actually working the case; even if he hadn’t gotten very far just yet.

Moriarty had been a ghost, until Greg ended up getting kidnapped and sitting right in front of him.

“Insulting me won’t help convince me to tell you anything,” Greg told the man sternly. “Actually, it’s doing the opposite. I’m not going to tell you a word now.”

Moriarty treated him to a look that clearly said ‘I know something you don’t,’ and he was gloating over it. “Tell me, DI, what do you know of magic?” Moriarty asked, the too-bright light back in his eyes.

Greg thought for a minute, but was then forced to concede, “Magic? Not anything really. I mean, I’ve read a few of those Harry Potter books, and seen movies.”

Moriarty made an extremely disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “Trash, all complete Council published trash.” His eyes narrowed menacingly. “And you, just like all of your kind, have fallen into the lie the Council and government have founded for you. You’re all fools.”

Greg stared at him in confusion, not quite believing this. “You’re saying all those fantasy books and movies were created by this Council?” He shook his head. “That’s a bit of a stretch.”

Moriarty’s face twisted and he appeared completely fed up with Greg. “It’s all true, no matter how difficult it is for your ape mind to understand.”

After a long pause Moriarty shook his head, and what little emotion there had been there vanished completely. I thought you could be talked to DI, that I could have a friendly conversation with you.” Moriarty’s mouth twisted. “Obviously I was wrong. So now, I’m afraid you’ve forced me to use more desperate, unfavorable measures.”

Coming from a man who had killed several people, and blown up a block of flats just to get Sherlock’s attention, Greg didn’t find that at all reassuring.

So as he watched Moriarty take chalk from his pocket and start drawing something on the floor around them, Greg tried- as discreetly as possible- to slip his restraints. But they weren’t actually rope or metal as he’d thought.

Then once Moriarty stopped in front of him again, and straightened up, he slipped the chalk back into his pocket while giving Greg a knowing smirk. As if he knew exactly what Greg had been trying to do.

But instead of calling him on it, Moriarty pulled on his suit as if it had gotten wrinkled in the last minute or so; and as if Greg wasn’t sitting tied up in a chair right in front of him. 

Finally Moriarty bothered to look at him again, a politician’s smile gracing his sharp features. “Alright, DI, that should stop us from being interrupted,” Moriarty said in a trying too hard to be cheerful voice. “I wouldn’t want our little chat to be cut short for any reason; that wouldn’t be any good.”

“No, course not,” Greg replied sarcastically under his breath. He tried to loosen the restraints again but they still refused to move. In his experience, these were the strongest restraints he’d encountered.

“So…” Moriarty drawled, drawing out the word long enough to make Greg uncomfortable again. “Would you please state your name for the record, DI?”

Obviously the man had watched too many cop shows; and Greg refused to make anything easier for him. “Since you’ve said my name before, you obviously already know,” Greg countered, lifting his chin. “I really don’t think you need me to say it.”

Moriarty pressed his lips together and then tilted his head slightly to the side. When he spoke, his tone was amiable, but his expression was otherwise, “Please, DI; Just repeat your name for me, humor me once.”

Greg could clearly hear the unspoken addition of ‘play along,’ and decided it would actually probably be better to follow for the moment.

“Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade,” Greg said in the same way every time he had to explain who he was. After all these years it rolled easily off his tongue.

For some unsettling reason Moriarty lit up like a child at Christmas at the sound of his name. But all he said was, “Interesting.”

Those years of honing his skills as a police officer sounded a warning bell in his head. “If you find my name interesting, you obviously haven’t met many interesting people,” Greg quipped, hoping it might make Moriarty divulge actually helpful information.

But Moriarty smiled as if he knew exactly what Greg was trying to do, which was actually possible. “Oh, it’s not your name, Detective Inspector,” Moriarty said, placing a special emphasis on his title. “That’s ordinary enough.”

Greg let a few long seconds go by before his curiosity won out. “Then what exactly is interesting?” He asked, meeting Moriarty’s eyes again to show him he wasn’t scared.

Moriarty, of course, didn’t look intimidated at all. Instead he smiled at Greg and replied, sounding strangely distracted, “Well, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade-“

Greg didn’t hear the rest of Moriarty’s response because suddenly he was gasping for air when he’d been perfectly fine before, and trying to struggle with the sensation of having been plunged into freezing water. Yet no matter how hard he tried, Greg couldn’t get his lungs to work properly and the weights around his wrists and wouldn’t let him move.

Fighting down the terror he couldn’t quite help boiling up, Greg tried to open his mouth to ask just what was going on- but his lips refused to move.

From nearby Moriarty gave a low, mocking chuckle. “Really, DI,” he scolded with a gleeful note, “I expected you to be much more troublesome than this. I kind of feel like your letting me win.” Moriarty actually pouted at this, as if it was a personal insult. “But you don’t even know what you’re doing,” Moriarty said as he moved closer to Greg until there was barely any space between them. 

“Sherlock didn’t warn you at all, did he? He kept all of his secrets to himself, letting you run around London completely oblivious.” Moriarty hummed quietly to himself, and tilted his head slightly. “Of course, that’s exactly what should happen to you talentless human scum,” he proclaimed, his voice dripping with hatred and so cold Greg flinched. “But I would have expected Sherlock to at least tell you something, seeing how close the two of you are.” It didn’t take any imagination to hear the sneer Moriarty poured into that one word. “Yet he was too busy looking for me; he had discovered a new toy to play with.”

“Poor Gregory Lestrade,” Moriarty smiled sharply, “you’ve never felt so worthless, have you.”

Greg did all he was able to just then, and glared fiercely at Moriarty like he did when Anderson was being overly annoying. Although those words struck close and he was still mad at Sherlock, Greg didn’t entirely blame the younger man. As usual, there was so much Sherlock could have told him yet hadn’t chosen to, instead throwing him tiny tidbits of information. But that was just how Sherlock worked, unfortunately. Even though he had gotten better since John appeared.

“Ooh, you didn’t like that, did you Lestrade?” Moriarty teased with a triumphant grin on his face. “Not being told anything, yet still having to try to solve cases. How do you cope? And even more degrading, crawling on your hands and knees to beg him for his help on cases it takes him less than half the time it would take your team of idiots to solve.” Moriarty shifted, propped his chin up on his hand. “It makes you almost redundant, doesn’t it DI?”

If he could, Greg would have laughed. Sherlock may be able to solve cases quickly and accurately, but the man would make an absolutely awful police officer. The apocalypse would come before Sherlock joined law enforcement.

Moriarty smiled, looking highly amused; and he had the same look as before when he seemed to have read Greg’s mind. “Mm, true,” Moriarty admitted. “Maybe not. But you do need him; there’s no use in denying it DI. You and your pathetic team would be completely lost without Sherlock Holmes, left chasing your own tails.”

Greg leaned in as close to Moriarty as his restraints would allow him. But Moriarty still had that mildly amused expression on his face, so apparently Greg wasn’t a threat to him at all. “My team works hard every single day to solve cases, and put criminals in jail,” Greg told the criminal in a low, harsh voice. “Sherlock helps us close more cases more quickly, but we were all solving cases a long time before I allowed him to join our team. He does help, yes, but we would be just as well off without him.”

“Really, DI?” Moriaty asked sounding very skeptical. “You honestly believe you would close so many cases without a genius like Sherlock Holmes?” He laughed harshly. “You think too highly of yourself.”

Greg was quickly growing tired of being mocked by this moral less criminal, and of this conversation. It was more wearing than being constantly ridiculed by Sherlock at crime scenes. “Listen, Moriarty,” he started in a firm voice, close to a growl.

But before Greg could even begin telling the other man just what he thought, Moriarty’s expression changed and he snapped, “Quiet.”

Greg’s mouth somehow snapped closed on its own so fast his teeth noisily clicked together.

“Excellent,” Moriarty self-congratulated, a small smile lifting his lips. He sat back at little. “Now, DI, we’re going to have a little chat; but you will only speak when I want you to, to answer my questions.”

“So, DI, the first and most important question I have for you is,” Moriarty announced, almost sounding like a game show host, “where exactly are Sherlock Holmes and his pet mutt?”

Moriarty might have thought he was intimidated, but Greg really just felt annoyed. So, although it might not have been the most logical decision, Greg replied, “you were there with them; I’d have thought you were observant enough to realize they died by that pool.”

His reward was a sharp pain that flared to life right at the front of his brain, making his eyesight flicker.

“Don’t be smart with me,” Moriarty commanded with a sharp bite to his words. “You’ll find I have very little patience with anyone who tries to make fun of me.” The cocky smile made another appearance. “And you also may have realized I have the power to punish you, if you happen to upset me.”

Greg wanted to ask Moriarty if he thought Greg was his own personal pet, but his mouth refused to open again. He was also having trouble thinking with the intense pain serving as a strong distraction.

“Now, DI, I’m going to be kind and repeat myself,” Moriarty announced as his cold gaze flickered over Greg’s face. “And this time you will answer me properly.”

“Technically,” Greg reminded Moriarty as he did his best to ignore the pain, “I did answer your question.”

Moriarty’s response was to press his lips tightly together into a thin line, and he suddenly seemed much less human. “I also do not appreciate sarcasm, DI. So I would advise you to watch yourself.”

“Now, tell me where Sherlock and his pet doctor are,” Moriarty demanded; and just then the pain suddenly became even more excruciating than Greg could have ever imagined, almost causing him to black out as pure agony tore through his head. “And don’t say in Baker Street, because I know for certain that they aren’t there.”

With how hard he had to focus just to stop himself from floating away into unconscious, it was very difficult to imagine even attempting to outwit Moriarty or dodge his questions. Especially since Moriarty had warned him not to even try.

So instead Greg was forced to tell Moriarty the slightest fabricated truth. “I don’t know exactly where they are, they didn’t see fit to tell me.” He flinched and might have possibly lost himself for a few seconds when the pain flared to the point of nails before quickly dying away again.

“Mm, nice try, DI,” Moriarty complimented, his voice disturbingly smooth and low, “But seeing as that was a lie, I’m afraid I’ll have to punish you for it. And I was so hoping to keep this a friendly little chat between ourselves, DI Gregory Lestrade.”

Before Greg could respond, suddenly his head was being ripped apart from the inside, nails pounding into the delicate flesh, until a few seconds later everything went blissfully dark.

When he finally came to again however many minutes later, his entire body was completely numb and his mind filled with a pleasant blankness that stopped him from really being able to think at all. It didn’t matter he was now slumped in the chair, unable to stay upright under his own power, or that he couldn’t move his fingers at all.

Once he could manage to raise his head just a few scant inches to meet Moriarty’s eyes, Greg found the man looking unnervingly cheerful.

“Welcome back, DI,” Moriarty greeted him, playing the perfect host even though it was already a long lost cause. “You left us for a while there.”

Greg just groaned quietly and did his best just to focus on breathing properly again. While he was conscious again, every part of his body was screaming bloody murder as if it had all been through a meat grinder all at the same time. It was taking most of his strength just to keep his head up.

“What did you do?” Greg gritted out between clenched teeth. He tried to curl in his fingers into a fist, but was mostly unsuccessful.

Moriarty treated him to a dazzling smile, actually bouncing a little in place. “You shouldn’t have given me your name, DI. You would be absolutely stunned by just what I can do with such a seemingly simple thing.” He titled his head thoughtfully, eyes becoming hooded and dark. “Actually, you will likely find out, so it might not surprise you after all.”

Greg didn’t understand why it was such a horrible thing Moriarty knew his name, but he was beginning to recognize it was. “You already knew my name before I told you,” Greg tried to reason this through, “I didn’t tell you anything new.”

Moriarty raised a hand to point a finger at him in the way a teacher would to a student. “That is not exactly true, DI. I knew your name, yes, but not how to pronounce it. And that is the key.”

He laughed at the way Greg’s confusion must have been showing on his face. “Oh, you are completely clueless, aren’t you? You have absolutely no idea!” Moriarty exclaimed, looking absolutely gleeful. “Oh this is absolutely excellent! He didn’t tell you anything.”

At this point in his career, Greg was utterly tired of holier-than-thou madmen; especially seeing as this one had somehow managed to kill both Sherlock and John at once.

“Yes, we’ve already covered how Sherlock kept me in the dark; good for him and all that,” Greg replied irritably, trying to sound bored. “Now, why don’t you show me just how brilliant you are and explain why it’s apparently so horrible for me that you know how to pronounce my name.”

It was a method that had worked on Sherlock before, and luckily it seemed Moriarty also enjoyed showing off his genius.

“The pronunciation is the key, DI,” Moriarty coached, leaning closer to him again. “Oh I could say your name for hours in my own way, and nothing would happen. However,” he continued, drawing out the word in a dramatic fashion, “if I know how you pronounce your name, DI Gregory Lestrade…”

Moriarty said his name in a complete echo of how Greg had, his voice a caress again; and to Greg’s displeasure the nails driven into his head returned, so he gritted his teeth to ignore it.

“… then, you’ve gifted me with your true name, and the power that gives me- over you.”

As a child Greg had read several fantasy books featuring faeries: stories where the child was stolen away from their families after innocently giving the faery their name, allowing the faery to manipulate them.

He had enjoyed the stories, but also found them incredibly unrealistic. So he hadn’t put much faith or thought into them, forgetting their warnings as the years went on.

Moriarty smiled that same knowing smile and then said quietly, “There is always some truth to every story, Gregory Lestrade; no matter how ridiculous they may seem.” The smile widened until it became unnatural. “It might help you survive longer if you were to remember that.”

Greg gave a biting laugh. “Well, it’s a bit late now, isn’t it?”

“Mm,” Moriarty replied, his smile slowly dying away. “Let’s see, shall we? I would rather not let you out of those restraints just yet, so what can I have you do for me?” Moriarty mused to himself, as if he wasn’t talking about Greg right in front him.

Greg was left waiting as Moriarty appeared to consider his options. He tried very hard not to think about just what Moriarty might chose to do, but his mind wasn’t cooperating with him. If Moriarty was anything like the man Greg thought him to be, he knew very well and was experiences with how to hurt a person.

Greg was surprised and outraged when Moriarty’s eyes widened in a decision just before he exclaimed, “Oh I know just the thing! Quack like a duck, Gregory,” Moriarty commanded, dark eyes fixed intently on him.

Greg had barely a second to glare indignantly at Moriarty before his mouth tried to open on its own. He quickly clenched his jaw and pressed his lips together to stop himself, but it only worked for a few seconds at a time before his mouth would open again.

Moriarty frowned, looking extremely annoyed at this setback. “Quack like a duck, Gregory,” he commanded again, putting more force into the words.

Greg tried to fight the compulsion to open his mouth in the same way; but this time when he did, the intense roaring pain flared again and he lost his ability to focus on keeping his mouth closed. His attention shifted to shutting out the pain, letting his mouth open on its own and an actual quacking noise to issue from it.

Moriarty’s face lit up, and he clapped his hands together like Sherlock did at a discovery of a new clue. “Oh, that is so wonderful, Gregory. Good job, boy, good job,” Moriarty complimented happily like Greg was just an obedient pet.

“Now let’s see what else you can do,” Moriarty mused thoughtfully, pressing two fingers against his lips as he studied Greg.

“I won’t make any more animal noises,” Greg icily told the madmen, realizing a second later that he had been able to speak this time.

But Moriarty waved his hand like he could physically dispel that thought with just a wave of his hand. “No, no, Gregory, you’re thinking too small. There are so many things I can do now.” He gave Greg a too-sharp smile. “So many things I can do with you.”

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Greg didn’t find this reassuring; instead it just gave him even more disturbing outcomes for what could happen in the next few minutes.

“I won’t go off on a killing spree no matter how much you threaten or hurt me,” Greg told the other man just so it was out there and Moriarty wouldn’t even try. “And I won’t do anything to any of the Holmes family, or John, either. Even that pompous git of a brother,” he added in a low voice.

Moriarty just shook his head disapprovingly. “Unfortunately, I can’t force you to do anything against your nature,” he explained, sounding annoyed and slightly distracted. “Unless I want to break your mind, but I’d rather not do that just yet. That would make you useless to me then, and I already have enough ghouls at my disposal…”

Still only vaguely reassuring. While Moriarty couldn’t make him do anything really horrible, there were so many things Moriarty could still force him to.

“Hmm,” Moriarty hummed with a thoughtful lift at the end. “Actually…” he drifted off to raise his head and looked Greg directly in the eyes, something he hadn’t done since the first few minutes after Greg had woken up.

Greg inhaled sharply and tried to brace himself for whatever undoubtedly horrible thing Moriarty was about to try.

Moriarty’s smile made him feel like an especially interesting piece of prey. “No need to worry so, Gregory. This shouldn’t hurt at all; you only have to look into my eyes.”

Greg rolled his eyes and was about to make a comment about just how cheesy that was. But then, by accident on his part, he did actually look Moriarty in the eyes.

A pressure built behind his eyes and suddenly the view in front of him vanished to be replaced by the equivalent of a blank screen. He blinked, seeing without really looking, then a series of images began assaulting him- images of a life that was most definitely not his.

Greg saw a quaint little cottage in the country surrounded by old trees, accompanied by a feeling of familiarity and warmth; then two middle-aged people- a man and woman- partnered with affection appeared, but the next second it changed to being partnered with hatred and disgust right before the image vanished completely.

Next came the image of a teenaged boy, fair-haired with a bright smile surrounded by hope and friendship; but then this image flickered and darkened as thin ropes crept into view and wrapped around the teenagers head, the eyes filling with repulsion and fear just as the pressure increased and there was an overwhelming sense of betrayed trust and friendship.

They were all incredibly strong feelings and Greg suffered as each one hit him like they were his own. He found it horribly difficult to fight down the anger and loneliness building inside of him, spurred on by the pressure and static in his head. It was too much, he didn’t want this, why, why-

The shock of being splashed with cold water brought Greg back to himself, just in time for the suffocating pressure to leave him gasping for breath. His eyes were screwed tightly shut, but Greg didn’t want to open them just in case he was assaulted with more of those horrible feelings and images. He tried to move, to shift into a more comfortable position, but he was still tied up and unable to move at all.

“What.Did.You.Do!” Moriarty’s voice demanded icily very close to his ear. “I have your true name, you let me soul gaze you, you know nothing about our world. So how did you just throw me off and lock me out so easily?”

Greg shook his head to indicate he hadn’t understood a word Moriarty had just said, then let out a relieved breath when no pain accompanied his movement. “I’m just a DI who’s idiotically managed to let himself be kidnapped by a criminal mastermind, that’s all,” he replied quietly, still keeping his eyes closed.

“Oh don’t be so hard on yourself, Greggy,” Moriarty soothed amicably like they were old friends. “You weren’t as easy a target at first as you seem to believe; it actually took a little work to find you. Once I managed to figure out your schedule, it became fairly simple to find a time to kidnap you.” Moriarty gave him a chilling smile, but his eyes were shining. “I’m afraid you were just too predictable, DI; I did expect more from you.”

Greg barked out a laugh, letting his head fall back. “Sorry to disappoint you. Next time I’ll try harder.”

“Oh Gregory,” Moriarty crooned, the smile surprisingly still present. “There won’t be a next time.”

At this carelessly given admission Greg finally opened his eyes, wincing a little even in the dim light. “So you take all this time to hunt me down, kidnap me… and now you’re just going to let me go?” His eyes finally managed to focus on Moriarty’s face. “Seems a little anticlimactic.”

Moriarty clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “You misunderstand me, Gregory. I’m going to have a little fun with you, use you to get at Sherlock Holmes, and then… well, you’ll have outlived your usefulness by then.”

Greg suspected he should have expected that, especially from a criminal like Moriarty; but it was still hard to hear he was just a tool for this feud between Moriarty and Sherlock. “Well, thanks for being so honest,” he replied sharply.

“Mm, but first…” Moriarty told him with a note of anticipation in his voice. “I need to know just how you managed to fight me off as quickly as you did. With your lack of any magical ability to speak of, you should have easily submitted.”

Greg stared blankly at the criminal mastermind, having to blink every few seconds to keep his eyes focused. “I didn’t do anything,” he argued brusquely, his temper beginning to fray under Moriarty’s unfounded accusations, “You’re thinking too much about this.”

“Hmm,” Moriarty replied, sounding like he didn’t quite believe Greg; yet another genius who was too stubborn and smart for his own good.

Greg shifted uncomfortably in the chair as Moriarty treated him to a colder version of Sherlock’s piercing- ‘I can read your entire life in one glance’- stare. Moriarty had already shown he was much more than a minor threat, and very capable of torture. Greg wasn’t eager to know what else Moriarty might feel like doing to him.

Then Moriarty’s gaze suddenly sharpened intensely, and his eyes narrowed into slits. “What do you have in your pockets, Detective Inspector?”

While Greg tried to understand just why Moriarty would care about what he carried around in his pockets, Moriarty leaned in so extremely close that Greg could feel the man’s breath on his face.

“What’s in your pockets, Detective Inspector?”

(end part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the cliffhanger, but that was really the best place to end it. I hope all of you still enjoyed it anyways.
> 
> And no worries, Greg will get some well-deserved hugs soon. Just after a bit more 'fun time with Moriarty' in the second half of this chapter. Which will be up soon. Hopefully.
> 
> Any feedback/comments/kudos/theories as to what is happening/advice would be given a very warm welcome! Just saying.
> 
> Sidenote: if anyone is interested, I am looking for a beta. Not a live-in one, just to help once I get things written up. It would mostly be for this story, but possibly also for another AU I'm starting on. Send me a message if you're interested!
> 
> See you all soon! Hopefully!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Greg's painful confrontation with your neighborhood criminal madman continues, and yet another game begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm really, really, really sorry this has taken so long. I don't really have any excuses. But, erm, sorry. Thanks to everyone who's managed to stay around at least, and any new people!
> 
> Anyways, hope you enjoy this- and that it meets all your expectations and was worth the wait! (See you at the end!)

Greg tried to move away from the words hissed in his ear, but the restraints barely let him move at all. “Nothing,” Greg admitted, not understanding, “nothing you’d be interested in.”

“We’ll see,” Moriarty challenged fiercely. Then he reached forward, hand moving out of Greg’s line of sight.

It wasn’t until there was a sudden pull on his coat that Greg realized Moriarty was actually digging in his pockets.

“Hold on a minute!” He protested loudly, trying, and failing, to get away from the searching hands.

“Stay still, Lestrade,” Moriarty commanded, not listening to Greg while continuing to search- and not noticing Greg had frozen still.

A few seconds later Moriarty finally drew back again. His dark eyes gleamed in triumph as he held a black wallet aloft in the air for Greg to see.

“And what would this be, Greg-boy?” Moriarty asked, voice pitched high and almost playful.

Greg raised his head a little to see what Moriarty was holding. “That’s my warrant card. One of them, I mean. One Sherlock hasn’t managed to lift yet.”

Moriarty didn’t seem to be listening again. He flipped open the wallet and peered curiously at the contents. “Hmm, DI Gregory Lestrade,” Moriarty read from the card. “Nice picture Greg-boy, you look positively dangerous.”

It was true that hadn’t been his best day- he’d just finished an exhausting case which involved running to all corners of the city with Sherlock constantly pestering him. Greg had returned to the office just wanting some peace and quiet, when a photographer had come bursting in insisting on taking a photo. He’d been so tired and startled, all he could do was let her drag him over to the wall and let the shutter click away.

Moriarty’s attention had drifted away from the card to the rest of his wallet. Not that there was really anything interesting in there: credit card, license, shop cards… Moriarty wasn’t going to find whatever he was looking for in his wallet.

Greg sighed heavily and sagged back into the chair. His head was still reeling from whatever Moriarty had done to him; it had been worse than even his worst hangovers, and Greg wasn’t sure he had entirely shaken it off. He had a strange feeling there was something else coming.

“Greg-boy,” Moriarty called in a too-quiet voice, the steel in his tone scaring Greg.

Greg quickly opened his eyes again to see Moriarty had become unnaturally still, like a snake ready to strike. Looking almost machine-like, Moriarty stared at him while holding a small slip of paper Greg had never seen before between two of his fingers.  
Moriarty’s expression was one of the few things that made Greg wish he was curled up on his sofa with a beer and the telly on. 

He wasn’t supposed to have been a target for Moriarty; he was just the officer assigned to Sherlock and John’s case- at least as far as the higher-ups knew. Yet here he was with Moriarty giving him a look that would cow even the hardest criminal. 

“What is this, Greg-boy?” Moriarty demanded crossly, eyes narrowing dangerously.

Greg stared at the slip of paper, trying to work out why it was upsetting Moriarty so much. He didn’t like stating the obvious, never mind what Sherlock thought, but this time he couldn’t completely help himself. “It’s a piece of paper.”

Moriarty treated him to a look that was a relative of the one Sherlock gave when he wasn’t absolutely certain if you were serious or not. “Yes, it does look like one.”

Greg waited for Moriarty to explain, but the man didn’t seem so inclined- unlike Sherlock if you drew out the silence long enough. “But… it’s not?” Greg gently nudged, framing it as a question so Moriarty might correct him.

Moriarty’s eyes suddenly widened in epiphany, his expression dissolving; “You don’t know,” he breathed, sitting back to watch Greg closely.

This was obviously the kidnapping where he realized just how much he didn’t know, and was then helpfully reminded of it by a criminal mastermind. “Doesn’t seem so,” Greg replied with as much cheer as he could currently manage. “But if you explained...”

Moriarty laughed at him, as if what he’d said had been amusing. “He made this for you, slipped it in your wallet, and you didn’t know,” Moriarty clarified, taking special care to emphasize the last word. “He is cunning, isn’t he?” He asked without really asking, complimenting Sherlock like his very own gifted child.

“Yes, very cunning,” Greg agreed dryly, thinking of the many times Sherlock lifted his wallet. “So what is that then?” He asked, wondering why Moriarty was praising Sherlock over a piece of paper.

“You don’t agree with me,” Moriarty noticed with a strange sad note in his voice. “That is unfortunate.” He shifted his gaze to the piece of paper he was holding. “This is an excellent piece of work, very intricate and powerful. I always knew he was a master, especially of magic,” Moriarty said admiringly, carefully studying the paper.

“Hang on, magic? Did you honestly just say magic?” Greg asked, surprised a criminal mastermind so intent on creating chaos would believe in such a fantastical thing.

Moriarty treated him to a look that said Greg was an idiot and he didn’t have time for this nonsense. “Yes, DI. All you people in London are so oblivious, do you know? You can’t imagine something like magic could be real. But some of us, the more observant and privileged, do know and use it to our advantage.”

“Yet Sherlock somehow decided that despite your incredible obliviousness, you are still worthy of his protection.” His gaze slid over Greg briefly before darting away again. “Curious.”

‘And unnecessary,’ Greg added silently. He was experienced enough in the world, and as a cop, to be capable of protecting himself- even without a firearm. If Sherlock was anyone else, Greg would have suspected this done out of kindness; but knowing Sherlock, he had probably done this just to make sure Greg stayed. He was the only one with enough patience to deal with Sherlock on a regular basis.

All though... some of the things he had run across over the years, especially after meeting Sherlock…

“Of course,” Moriarty added in the same thoughtful tone, “you won’t be needing this anymore.” He held the paper up in the air, fingers gripping each end. “It won’t be any use to you after this,” Moriarty shifted his hands, poised to rip the paper. “So sorry, DI.”

Greg wasn’t entirely sure what happened next.

What he saw was that as Moriarty tried to tear the paper, it suddenly began glowing brightly. The next second Moriarty dropped the paper like it had burnt him, cursing angrily under his breath.

Greg pressed his lips together tightly to stop from laughing. The criminal mastermind destroyed by a simple piece of paper, one that could apparently burn someone. He leaned down as far as possible to look at the paper, but it seemed perfectly normal.

“Be silent,” Moriarty commanded irritably, lowering his hand to his side after he stopped brandishing it in the air. He looked extremely annoyed.

Greg’s mouth snapped closed again, leaving Greg even more frustrated. How were they supposed to get anywhere if Moriarty stopped him talking?

Moriarty easily ignored Greg’s frustrated glare as he glared down at the paper. “Well, seems Sherlock dearest left me a little present.” He curled his hand into a fist, and Greg thought he could feel the pressure in his head returning. Moriarty frowned darkly, “how kind of him.”

After several seconds Moriarty finally looked at him again, and Greg couldn’t say a word because Moriarty had somehow stopped him speaking.

And… that cold fire in the criminal’s eyes was definitely not good.

Greg leaned back, away, but the restraints just pulled tighter and the chair refused to move. His attempt to retreat seemed only to amuse Moriarty, the sharp smile widening.

“Well, DI,” Moriarty said falsely amiably, “I’m sure we’ll find another way to enjoy our time together.” His hand flexed during an appropriately dramatic pause. Then he said, like an afterthought, “Actually, I know exactly what we can do.”

Greg had no time to think that over in the brief second before the paper flared with light on the floor, and then the pressure swelled behind his eyes and he couldn’t see anymore.

Greg drew in a sharp breath as his head fell back, wishing he could do something- anything- to relieve the excruciating pressure. Greg closed his eyes tightly to see if that would help.

“Are you comfortable, Gregory?” Moriarty asked, but from the smirk in his voice it was obvious he didn’t care.

Even if he had the choice to speak, Greg didn’t think he actually would have. The pressure was getting worse with every second, and it was quickly becoming even worse than the pounding drums his hangovers usually left him with. His head felt like it was somehow being crushed and pounded at with a heavy brick at the same time.

“Now, Gregory,” Moriarty told him in a condescending tone as if Greg was a child. “We’re going to play a little game.”

Greg heard a rustling noise and then felt Moriarty digging through his pockets again. But this time it took less than a minute to find what he was looking for.

The sound his phone made as its buttons were pressed was barely audible in the background as Moriarty instructed, “You are going to call your number for Sherlock, and say exactly what I tell you. Do you understand?”

“I won’t be your hostage,” Greg had time to gasp out just before the pain became so horrible it felt like screws driven into his skull. He couldn’t think at all, he just wanted it to stop and not have his head ripped apart. And he couldn’t even ask Moriarty to stop.

“I asked if you understood, Greg-boy, not for a snide comment,” Moriarty scolded, sounding only mildly irritated.

After he didn’t respond right away Greg had to bite back another gasp, the screws driving even deeper into his brain. Not wanting to give Moriarty the satisfaction Greg pressed his lips together so no sound escaped.

Now Moriarty was amused once again. “Playing the hero now are we? How sweet.” The sound of the keys on his phone came again. “Now, I am going to call this number and you will speak with whomever answers. You will convince them to let you speak to Sherlock.” The noise from the keys stopped before Greg heard Moriarty move.

A slightly cold, smooth surface rested against his ear, and it took him longer than it should have to recognize his phone. He let out a soft sigh, relieved at the cool touch.

“Do not warn them, Gregory,” Moriarty warned, “say exactly what I say; otherwise you will find yourself in excruciating pain.” A smile crept into the silken voice; “yes, even worse than how it is now. I can make it so painful you cannot even imagine.”

Greg wasn’t sure he could envision that, even if he did believe Moriarty was telling the truth. He listened to the dial tone in his ear, and then the ringing as the phone connected.

A somewhat familiar voice, but not the one he was expecting, answered after more than half a dozen rings. Obviously no one had been waiting by the phone.

“Hello?”

Greg coughed, and opened his eyes just enough to see Moriarty. The criminal gave him a small smile and mouthed, ‘tell him who you are, and you want to talk to Sherlock.’

For a second Greg wondered if he was back in grade school, whispering across the classroom. But then the person on the other end cleared their throat impatiently.

“Hello? Are you still there?”

The pain lessened a little as he started speaking, all though Moriarty was still watching him very carefully. Greg didn’t think testing the criminal’s patience was a good idea.

“Yes, sorry,” he quickly apologized, covering the silence as fast as he could. “This is Lestrade, DI Lestrade.”

The irritation Greg was beginning to associate with Sherlock’s brother edged into the man’s voice. “Ah, yes. Hello, Detective Inspector. How can I help you?”

Greg snuck a glance at Moriarty again, only to get a raised eyebrow in return. Right, he’d better play this through. “I have to speak to Sherlock,” Greg carefully requested and didn’t demand. He worked to keep his voice steady, and not give away any distress that would make Moriarty suspicious. “It’s important.”

Sherlock’s brother sighed softly in his ear, and then replied in the same tone Greg had heard from Sherlock when he knew information was being withheld from him. “I’m afraid my brother is indisposed at the moment, DI. However, I would send on a message if you would like to leave one.”

It came as no surprise Sherlock’s brother was just as stubborn as the Holmes Greg was used to dealing with; but right now Greg was not prepared to better a Holmes. He didn’t want to know what might happen if he didn’t get through to Sherlock.

Some of the anxiety leaked into his voice as he requested, “Please, Mr. Holmes. It’s important; I really do need to talk to Sherlock.”

‘Mr. Holmes’ was silent for what felt like a long time as he considered the request. In the meantime Greg tried not to fuss, every so often glancing at Moriarty.

Finally Sherlock’s brother said in the same pleasant tone, one Greg wasn’t able to read, “Very well, DI; One moment please.” Static from the phone suddenly crackled in his ear, and then silence fell. Greg waited, wondering if the call had been dropped.   
Moriarty just looked expectant.

When Moriarty noticed Greg was looking at him, he smiled sharply and winked. Greg smiled weakly and wished Sherlock’s brother would hurry up.

Suddenly the phone crackled so loudly Greg flinched and turned his head away from the ear-splitting noise. Moriarty smirked, but refused to move the phone away from Greg’s ear.

There was sound coming from the other end, but it was so muffled Greg couldn’t tell what it was from. But they did sound further away than Greg had expected, leaving him to wonder just how far away from London the Holmes home was.

At least this hopefully meant he would actually be able to talk to Sherlock soon.

~~~ * ~~~

John startled at the sound of a knock on the door below, barely audible over the orchestral music coming from the player. John quickly glanced over at Sherlock, hoping he hadn’t woken up. But Sherlock seemed as dead to the world as always when he finally fell asleep after staying awake for days.

John walked across the room and over to the doorway, wondering why whoever it was had decided to bother them now. Mummy Holmes had promised they wouldn’t be disturbed for a while, and supposedly Mycroft and Father Holmes were locked in the study puzzling over Moriarty as only Holmes men could.

Not that John liked being left out of that discussion.

So John was surprised- and a bit worried- to step out through the door, and find Mycroft on the other side. To his credit it didn’t take John long to notice the older man’s pinched expression and the mobile in his hand- not as long as it would have before he met Sherlock.

John frowned, trying to put the two together to make his own conclusion. “Yes, Mycroft?” He asked.

“The DI is on the phone, he would like to speak with Sherlock,” Mycroft explained as he held out the phone.

If Lestrade was calling then maybe there had finally been some break in the case, one even the Holmes’ hadn’t discovered yet. It would be good for Sherlock to talk to Lestrade, but he was finally sleeping for once… even if they didn’t necessarily need sleep anymore.

“I know it’s important, but right now’s not the best time,” John insisted, tilting his head to listen if Sherlock happened to have woken up in the last few minutes. There wasn’t any sound from the room above them, so likely not just yet. “If he-“

“I need to talk to him, Dr. Watson. Please,” Lestrade’s voice requested hollowly from the speaker on the phone. There was a strange note in the DI’s voice John hadn’t heard before, through all Lestrade’s interactions with Sherlock.

John glanced up at Mycroft, but the elder brother just had the mild expression he usually wore. “Lestrade…”

A raspy gasp whispered through the speaker and was then abruptly cut off.

John bent closer over the phone; “Lestrade?”

“I-I’m fine,” Lestrade replied after a second, his voice shaking slightly. Then the DI cleared his throat. “I really do need to talk to Sherlock, Dr. Watson. Now.”

This wasn’t just a friendly call then, the DI needed Sherlock’s help. Even John could tell something was wrong and not quite right.

“All right, you’d better hand it over then,” John said, meeting Mycroft’s gaze. He’d take the phone up to Sherlock, but didn’t think Mycroft needed to come as well. And honestly, John was still upset with Mycroft over what’d happened to Sherlock.

Mycroft didn’t say anything, he just gave John a patient look and continued holding the phone.

Of course it wouldn’t be so simple to brush off a Holmes, or even get them to hand over a phone- usually he had to get the phone for Sherlock. But why…? 

Oh, the dead couldn’t use phones could they; even how he and Sherlock were.

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Right, you’d better come up then. I’ll go and wake Sherlock.”

John went back through the door and hurried up the stairs just as the music reached a crescendo. How oddly fitting, he thought.

From a step or so behind him Mycroft asked in a low voice, “Does he still tap his fingers along to the music?”

It was a question John hadn’t expected; not only because this was Mycroft, but also because of the sentiment and history John sensed behind it. He replied simply, “Yeah, he does.”

They arrived in the room proper then, and John went through the doorway first. He began walking towards the bed, and Sherlock, when a sound like the buzzer used on games shows blared. John jumped a little and turned back to see what the noise was for.

Mycroft was standing just outside the doorway, his jaw set as he stared intently at his brother’s still form. He didn’t look visibly hurt, but at the same time he wasn’t moving further into the room.

“I see your sense of humor hasn’t improved,” the elder brother called in an unaffected voice, “Or your effects on certain workings.”

The only sign Sherlock had heard was the sudden stilling of his fingers, and the way he became even more still on the bed.

“Let me through, Sherlock,” Mycroft not quite demanded. “I’m not here for a contest of wills. The only reason I bothered you and Dr. Watson is the DI insisted.”

That news seemed to briefly catch Sherlock’s attention. “Lestrade? What does he want? Has he lost his way to the Yard again?” Sherlock inquired, his voice still slightly slurred from sleep.

“Sherlock,” John scolded, stopping next to the bed. “Lestrade sounds upset, you should talk to him.” At Sherlock’s doubtful hum John added, “at least long enough to hear what’s been going on. You could at least do that.”

Sherlock turned his head just enough to peer over his arm at John.

In response John raised his head in challenge, waiting for the inevitable “Oh, all right,” as Sherlock sat up and turned to face him. “Toss the phone on the bed, then kindly piss off Mycroft.”

“I had forgotten how cheerful you are when woken prematurely,” Mycroft commented as he set the phone down on the floor next to his feet; “Such a contrast of course to your usual cheerful disposition, of course.”

Sherlock scowled darkly at this, and pointedly did not look at or speak to his brother. He turned to John and said, in his usual tone, “Phone, please John.”

John stared at Sherlock, looked over at the phone all the way across the room by Mycroft’s feet, and then back at Sherlock again. “You can’t be serious.”

“Phone, John,” Sherlock said again, this time without the ‘please.’

John sighed heavily, rolled his eyes, and climbed off the bed. He went across the room, picked up the phone from the floor without a word to Mycroft, and then walked back. Then John tossed the phone by Sherlock and sat back down again.

Sherlock engaged in a staring contest with the phone, as if Lestrade could actually see him and would start talking at Sherlock’s impatient look. John wondered what Lestrade thought of all he’d overheard in the last few minutes.

Mycroft, with his years of experience dealing with Sherlock, appeared to have expected this reaction. He turned around and began walking down the stairs. His last words were directed to John, “Do try not to let him rile the DI too much, Dr. Watson; any ally is still an ally.”

“I’ll do my best,” John promised the empty doorway before turning to Sherlock. 

“Well?” He asked his flat mate, crossing his arms expectantly. “Say something, Lestrade’s been waiting a while.”

Sherlock sent him an annoyed look, and then addressed the phone. “Have you managed to actually find Moriarty, or did you simply phone to update me on your as of yet unsuccessful investigation?”

“Why Sherlock, darling, I didn’t know you’ve missed me so much,” an entirely different voice, one John had never wanted to hear again and sent chills down his spine, asked in a cheerful lilt. John stiffened, fingers curling into fists. 

At the sound of that voice Sherlock’s gaze locked on the phone, and his expression went infuriatingly blank. “You’re still alive then,” he commented in a tone other people usually reserved for discussing the weather. “How disappointing.”

Instead of sounding hurt as a normal person would, Moriarty actually laughed. “Be honest, Sherlock. You would be lost and bored without me.”

Sherlock’s gaze flicked briefly to John’s face before returning back to the phone. “I would be lost without my blogger; you, on the other hand, are not as indispensable.”

Moriarty made an annoyed ‘tsk’ing sound, then responded genially, “I would be hurt by that Sherlock, if I didn’t know you were joking. I know you look forward to our entertaining games.”

“They may have been entertaining to the two of you, but people did die if you remember,” John broke in, leaning closer to the phone, and Sherlock. He hadn’t signed up to be the moral guide for two mad geniuses; he barely survived being one for Sherlock.

“Yes, as people do,” Moriarty agreed impatiently, obviously annoyed John had interrupted his and Sherlock’s very important conversation.

But Sherlock added in his own now. “They may have been entertaining at first, yes. But I now find myself disappointed with the result of your games; how do you expect me to play when you failed to fully bring me back from the dead?”

Moriarty made a strange growling noise, as if he couldn’t quite help himself. “That was not my fault; the spell was working perfectly until you decided to ruin it. Blame yourself for your condition.”

“So you’re saying it’s actually our fault we’re like this?” John asked incredulously. “Weren’t you the one who did this to us in the first place? We didn’t do anything; you were the one who killed us!”

“Technicalities,” Moriarty replied dismissively, before abruptly changing topics. “I have another game I want to play, Sherlock,” he said with an almost gleeful note in his voice. “One I think you will be much more invested in this time.”

Before Moriarty could continue, especially with the invitation John sensed he was about to give, John quickly warned, “I won’t let you kill anyone, not one person. And if you do, I promise I will come after you.”

It was obvious Moriarty saw him as unimportant and a very small threat since the criminal mastermind seemed eternally deaf to his voice.

“Well, Sherlock dear?” Moriarty asked, sounding hopeful. “Are you intrigued?”

“What sort of game are you suggesting?” Sherlock asked, his expression and voice not giving away any reaction to Moriarty’s invitation.

A muffled yell erupted from the phone, followed by a quickly cut-off curse.

“Hush now, Lestrade,” Moriarty’s voice quieted with a soft ‘tsk.’ “Mother and Father are talking.”

“Which one am I?” Sherlock inquired, even though he didn’t sound very eager to know. He didn’t seem to have heard Lestrade’s shout, but John had seen his brow furrow.

John could only wonder what would happen to Lestrade with all this. “Lestrade, are you all right?” He quickly asked, not caring if it annoyed Moriarty. It wasn’t like he was interrupting anything; the two were just playing games with each other like they always seemed to do.

“I’m fine, don’t-

Moriarty’s voice cut off Lestrade’s likely false reassurances by saying uncaringly, “No need to worry about the DI, he’s fine. Maybe a little worse for wear, but that’s all right isn’t it? Now Sherlock, do you want to hear about this new game of ours?” Moriarty asked eagerly. “I’m afraid we’ve already started, so you have a bit of catching up to do.” Moriarty laughed as if this amused him.   
“But you’re quick on your feet, aren’t you Sherlock?”

“’Catching up’? What do you mean ‘catching up’?” John asked, worrying not only about this game between Sherlock and Moriarty that never seemed to end, but also that he and Sherlock may be behind in whatever they were involved in now. Something they were only just learning about.

Luckily, as usual Sherlock seemed to understand Moriarty’s twisted mind. “You mean your taking Lestrade. That was your first move.”

“Yes it was. Good, Sherlock,” Moriarty praised, sounding like he could have been dancing in his chair for how happy he sounded. “You’re learning.”

John kept his eyes on Sherlock as he asked the phone, “So, what do you want from us then?”

“Well, the question is… what will your next move be?” Moriarty replied, like this was simply a game of chess. “If you would let me make a suggestion, I’d say you might want to try to find your precious DI first; seeing as you think so highly of him.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Sherlock replied agreeably, shifting a little on the bed. “He does have his uses.”

A weak faint chuckle came from the phone; a sign Lestrade was thankfully still alive.

“And I would try to hurry, Sherlock,” Moriarty said in a amiable suggestive tone. “I’m afraid DI Gregory Lestrade isn’t feeling well all of a sudden,” he told them, voice dripping with false grief.

Most of his words were drowned out by pained screaming that could only be Lestrade. Screams John had last heard on the battlefield from soldiers as bullets tore through fragile flesh.

“Lestrade! Lestrade!” John yelled as his instincts as a doctor shouted at him to help a wounded ally. But Lestrade was not only god knew where, but also in the care of a genius madman. There was no guessing at what horrible condition they would find the DI in.

“It’s your move, Sherlock Holmes,” Moriarty called gleefully over the noise. “Make it wisely!”

Then, with a loud crackling of static from the phone, Moriarty- and Lestrade with him- was gone.

After a long silence as he and Sherlock stared at the phone, John finally lifted his head to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “So, I guess the game is on again then?”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted in the beginnings of a smile. “No need to worry, John. This game won’t take long.”

“Famous last words, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was a kind of happy ending, wasn't it? And no worries, Greg will get some well-deserved hugs soon, and be part of a daring rescue. Which will be up soon. Hopefully.
> 
> Any feedback/comments/kudos/theories as to what is happening/advice would be given a very warm welcome! Just saying.
> 
> Sidenote: if anyone is interested, I am looking for a beta. Not a live-in one, just to help once I get things written up. It would mostly be for this story, but possibly also for another AU I'm starting on. Send me a message if you're interested!
> 
> This is currently a WIP, but I just want you all to know that I am very intent on finishing it! I really like writing in this universe.
> 
> See you all soon! Hopefully!

**Author's Note:**

> So, here we are! The long-awaited sequel! *dances*
> 
> *cough* Anyways, I really hope you enjoyed. This chapter is just the beginning ;)
> 
> I have three more chapters fully written, and another two in the works. So I decided to not let you guys wait any longer ;) I also most of the rest of the plot worked out, thanks to the lovely KT- <33 you girl.
> 
> Thanks so, so, so, so, so, a billion times more thanks, for all of your comments, kudos, hits, reads, and just all the wonderful feedback you guys have given me. I really, really appreciate all of it, it kept me writing. ^^
> 
> See ya next Friday! Any feedback you want to leave, or anything else, would be absolutely loved <3333
> 
> *** EDIT: Okay, so the next chapter might be a bit longer. I have the next chapter written, but not entirely the chapter after that. But I promise I'll either have it up early next week, or by Friday. Promise.***
> 
> Thanks again, see you soon~! <3


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